Still Not in Kansas
by Soledad
Summary: A Babylon5 - Star Trek Voyager crossover, based on the events of the 3rd season episode 'Grey 17 is Missing'. Story complete.
1. Part 01

**STILL NOT IN KANSAS**

**by Soledad**

**Rating:** PG-13, most likely

**Series:** B5/Star Trek crossovers (independent pieces)

**Archiving:** sure, just ask first

**Disclaimer:** Babylon 5 belongs to JMS and Time Warner. Star Trek – Voyager belongs to Gene Roddenberry and whoever else keeps the rights at the moment. I'm just borrowing their characters to have a little fun. No harm intended and (alas!) no money made.

**Timeline:** Late Season 3 for B5 (before, during and after "Grey 17 is Missing"), early Season 4 for _Voyager_, but Kes is still on board and has not evolved into an elated being

**Summary:** _Voyager_ discovers another wormhole/anomaly. Instruments state that it leads to the Epsilon Eridani system in the AQ. Everyone is happy, as this would mean they might end up somewhere near Vulcan. However, the anomaly leads to a different universe, and they end up right in front of B5. While they are waiting for the anomaly to reappear, they get involved in the life of the station.

**Note:** This is a repost, after having beta-read by the most gracious eyeofacat. Thanks!

* * *

**A SHORT FOREWORD**

I have never written a Babylon 5 fic before. The whole idea was born due to a short discussion on the Memory Alpha Yahoo Group (a list dedicated to Star Trek crossovers and AUs) and to the fact that I have been re-watching Babylon 5 on video for several weeks by now. Also, I started to read fanfiction in this fandom, which I haven't done for a long time, and it awakened my interest again.

In most of my fandoms (save one) I write crossovers and AUs. This story is no exception. As I like both Babylon 5 and Star Trek, I tried to stay as close as canon as possible. Mistakes can always happen, of course, despite the ungodly amount of research I've done. Also, since this is an AU, some things _are_ different. But only those that were necessary for this story to work.

One more thing: although this story turned out to be more light-hearted than most of what I write, it's not a parody. It deals with the events of the 3rd Season B5-episode "Grey 17 is Missing", which were deadly serious for most of the participants. However, I only used the Neroon/Delenn storyline and skipped the other one with Garibaldi. There will also be references to earlier B5-episodes, especially "Walkabout" and "War Without End".

So, and now on with the story!

* * *

**PART ONE **

**Author's notes:** The story title refers to "The Wizard of Oz", of course – and to the fact how often the _Voyager_ crew believed that they have found a wormhole that would bring them right home. The description of Epsilon 3 follows the planetary classification system in Shane Johnson's excellent background info book "The Worlds of the Federation".

Captain Kathryn Janeway glared at the huge viewscreen of Stellar Cartography as if she wanted the universe to bend to her iron will. Too often had they hoped to have found a way home. Too often had they been disappointed.

"Are you absolutely certain?" she asked Seven of Nine, who was standing at the console and fine-tuning the representation on the big screen. The Borg drone gave her The Eyebrow™ that always displayed Seven's impatience with the typical human second-guessing.

"Positive, Captain," the Borg responded in her customary unemotional manner. "This is without doubt a type-139 anomaly. Also known as a periodically opening and collapsing wormhole with a stability factor of 89.17 per cent."

"With other words – there is a risk that it would collapse with us inside," Chakotay commented thoughtfully.

The Borg gave him an icy glare. "There is _always_ a risk involved, Commander. That is why these phenomena are called anomalies. In fact, the bigger the ship that crosses the anomaly, the more severe are the risks of disturbing it and causing a collapse."

"Fortunately, _Voyager_ isn't a big ship," Janeway turned to Torres. "B'Elanna, can you reinforce hull integrity for the time of crossing the wormhole?"

The half-Klingon thought about it for a moment, then shook her head regretfully. "I don't think so, Captain. The only way to reinforce hull integrity – save from getting brand new hull plates, of course – would be to reroute more energy into the forcefields. And that's exactly what could disturb the balance of a wormhole. I wouldn't suggest such thing."

"All right," Janeway sighed. "Send a class one probe into the anomaly for further studies and transfer the readings into my ready room. We'll have a staff meeting at 1400 and discuss the matter before making a decision. Keep me informed."

"Certainly, Captain," Seven said to Janeway's retreating back, as the captain was already marching out of Stellar Cartography. Chakotay followed suit, and Megan Delaney hurriedly prepared the probe for launch.

A class-1 sensor probe was little more than an instrumented torpedo. It was usually launched from Federation starships for investigation into areas that one did not wish to take the starship – or at least not right away, just like in this case. The class-1 probe carried a very wide range of scientific sensing equipment and – if programmed correctly – could work independently, without being controlled from the starship itself; which could prove instrumental while investigating anomalies that could disturb its connection with the ship. In those cases the probe automatically ejected a data module that the ship could pick up afterwards.

"Probe is ready to launch," Megan Delaney reported twenty minutes later. She took her time to check and re-check the programming, well aware how important every oh so little detail could be.

Seven of Nine ran a final check on her console. "Very well. Launch probe."

"Initiating launch sequence in five… four… three… two… one… probe launched."

"Connection is undisturbed – for the moment," Jenny Delaney added. "First data are coming in. Recording started."

At 1400 the senior officers gathered in the briefing room. Although everybody tried to keep their hopes low – there had been just too many disappointments during the last two and half years – a certain excitement couldn't be denied. Even Chakotay had a hard time of keeping his usual stoic façade, but he succeeded nevertheless. Decades of meditation always came handy in situations like this.

The only person completely unfazed by the whole thing was Seven of Nine, of course. For her, this was another scientific assignment, nothing else. Even though she intellectually understood that the crew wanted to get home, the attached emotions were alien to her.

"Captain," she acknowledged Janeway's presence with a nod, "our initial readings have been completed. The last data have just been recorded and analyzed."

"Any idea where the wormhole could lead?" Janeway didn't have the time to take a look at he very last block of data as she was needed on the bridge. The anomaly caused quite a bit of havoc with the ship's instruments at such a close proximity.

"Positive," Seven replied. "According to the readings, the other end of the anomaly opens in the Alpha Quadrant."

For a moment, there was deadly silence in the briefing room. The officers could barely breathe, torn between hope and fear that this would prove to be another dead end, after all. Even Tuvok seemed a little… agitated, resulting in his fingertips pressing just a little too hard against each other in the classic Vulcan pose of concentration.

"_Where_ in the Alpha Quadrant?" Paris finally asked. They _could_ end up in the middle of the Cardassian Empire, of course, and that would be rather… inconvenient.

"In the Epsilon Eridani star system," the Borg displayed the star chart to the viewscreen of the briefing room. "More precisely near a class-G desert planet known as Epsilon 3. It is a planet very similar to Rigel 12, with a thing oxidizing atmosphere and a silicate surface. Unable to support humanoid life, but considering the planet's location that fact is irrelevant for the crew."

Kim frowned. "How could it be irrelevant… hey, wait a moment! Epsilon Eridani _is_ the Vulcan system, isn't it?"

"Correct."

"That would mean that we would end up in the heart of the Federation, _if_ we can cross the wormhole, right?"

"Correct again. However, the emphasis is on _if we can cross_, in this case," Seven made the star chart vanish and displayed a graphic representation of the wormhole. "As you can see, there are violent gravitation eddies inside the anomaly. And while _Voyager_ is certainly small enough to pass through between them, it would require extremely precise navigation to avoid any violent crashes."

"Can we program the course into the navigation computer?" Janeway asked, ignoring the insulted look on Paris' face. The Borg shook her head.

"No, Captain. The appearance of the gravitation eddies shows no pattern at all. This is one of those rare cases when the intuition of a living being at the navigation instrument is required. I believe Lieutenant Paris would call it _a gut feeling_?"

Janeway sighed. As much as she trusted Paris' piloting skills, she trusted the computer more. Paris was just a human being who could err and make mistakes – sometimes fatal ones with tragic consequences, as the events of Caldik Prime had proved. A computer, if programmed correctly, could not. But they had no choice, it seemed.

"All right," she said reluctantly, "then we are at Mr. Paris' mercy once again. But I'd like to watch the wormhole for another twenty-four hours first, record the appearance of those eddies and see if we don't find a pattern, after all, before heading into it."

"That would not be possible," Seven replied calmly. "According to our readings, the anomaly will collapse within sixteen hours. The analysis of radiation residue shows that it has an active cycle of thirty-six hours, twenty of which are already gone."

"Can we make an educated guess when it would open again, once it is closed?" Janeway asked.

"More than a guess, Captain," Tuvok intervened for the first time. "On Vulcan, the phenomenon is known simply as the Epsilon 3-singularity. It opens precisely in every twenty-three point four Standard days. However, never have our readings shown any signs of it being a wormhole. Probes sent into the anomaly have been destroyed after a few minutes – until presently, the longest time a probe remained intact was forty-five point eight Standard minutes. If the anomaly now opens into the Delta Quadrant, something unusual must have happened to it."

"Which means, this might be our only chance to cross it," Janeway guessed, and the Vulcan nodded soberly.

"That is correct, Captain."

"I see. Seven, how long was our probe intact?"

"For almost six hours, Captain; before it got caught in a gravitation eddy and imploded. For the moment, the wormhole seems to be stabile enough to cross."

"But that can change any time… right?"

"It can, and it most likely will, Captain. Type-139 anomalies are quite stabile as a rule, but if this particular phenomenon used to be something entirely else, as Commander Tuvok says, we can't expect it to remain stabile for any time."

"So, either we cross it now, or we might never get another go," Janeway bit her lip, frustrated. Then she looked at Chakotay. "Any suggestions, Commander?"

"I would suggest a compromise," the First Officer said. "Let's send in another probe and watch the anomaly for two more hours. If it's still stabile after that, I'd say we risk a crossing."

"And if it collapses in an hour and a half?" Janeway asked. "Then we have missed a chance to get home – a chance we might never get again."

"True," Chakotay admitted. "But if the wormhole can't remain stable for another two hours, then, in my opinion, the risk to enter it is simply too great. I for my part would rather travel across the Delta Quadrant for two more decades than get crushed in the middle of an instable wormhole."

"I agree," Tuvok said. "Entering the anomaly is a risk in any case – collecting more data and waiting for a little longer could lessen that risk."

"I'd like to study those eddies before I start sailing between Scylla and Charybdis, myself," Paris added, meeting the usual blank looks as always when he referred to obscure Earth trivia. "I'd prefer to bring _Voyager_ through in one piece. We'll be battered enough as it is – those eddies look pretty violent to me."

It was a rare thing that the usually reckless chief pilot displayed so much caution, and that was what finally made Janeway give in.

"Very well," she said. "Seven, launch another probe. Mr. Paris, call in for your replacement and start simulations on the holodeck at once. If in two hours the wormhole is still there, we're going in. Dismissed."

TBC


	2. Part 02

**STILL NOT IN KANSAS**

**by Soledad**

**Author's notes:** For disclaimer, rating, etc., see Part One.

The Tenrakans are a so far nonexistent Delta Quadrant race, so Neelix' reference is irrelevant. The name has been created with the help of the famous T-race generator of the _Ex Astris Scientia_ website.

* * *

**PART TWO **

Two hours later, they knew little more about the wormhole than they had known before. The readings remained contradictory and kept changing. However, the anomaly didn't show any signs of an untimely collapse, either.

"Fourteen hours left, if we can trust our calculations," Chakotay said quietly. "What are we going to do, Captain?"

Janeway shrugged, clearly not liking either of their choices. "Is there really a choice, Commander? Everything points to the wormhole leading straight into the heart of the Federation. It is stable enough to take a risk. Can we afford to miss this opportunity?"

"Not really," Chakotay admitted hesitantly. He had a bad feeling about the anomaly but no convincing arguments against the whole thing. "We are going in, aren't we?"

Janeway nodded. "We have to." She raised her voice a little to catch her chief helmsman's attention. "Mr. Paris? Plot a course to the entrance of the wormhole and go ahead. Half impulse."

"Yes Ma'am!" the blond pilot grinned in excitement. Long fingers danced on the helm console, then Paris looked back. "Course laid in. Half impulse ahead."

_Voyager_ glided forth towards the disk-like entrance of the anomaly that seemed to be made of swirling golden dust. It was a beautiful sight – beautiful but also deadly, as they very well knew. Neelix and Kes, standing behind the captain's chair on the upper part of the bridge, gripped the railing with one hand and each other's hand with the other one. They usually wouldn't come to the bridge, unless asked, but this was something they didn't want to miss.

"Approaching outer perimeter," Paris reported calmly, modifying their course with feather-like touches on his control panel. Now everything depended on his formidable piloting skills. "Slowing down to one-quarter impulse."

Everyone held their breath on the bridge. Of course, they _needed_ to slow down, unless they wanted to run into one of those violent gravitation eddies that had destroyed two of their probes just hours ago. But slowing down also meant that _Voyager_ would be exposed to the destructive powers inside the anomaly longer. Still, there was nothing that could help that. They had to go through.

"Computer," Chakotay said in a controlled, even voice, "give me a visual at bearing three-two, mark two-eight-seven, range thirty-two hundred kilometres. Magnification: twenty per cent"

The display on the main viewscreen wavered and changed to a closer look of the anomaly. It looked like a hole in space, filled with golden fire, flaring around its perimeter. In its heart, there was a dark tunnel, however, and that was exactly where their course led.

"Sensors are picking up unusually high proton counts," Kim reported, frowning slightly at the data on his monitors.

"Could it be chrondrite echoes?" Janeway asked. "We are in the middle of an asteroid belt, after all."

But Kim shook his head, working his panel with both hands, checking multiple readings. "No, Captain. At least I don't think so. The neutrino disturbances are getting stronger as we approach the anomaly. In fact, these readings are very similar to those you can get when approaching the Bajoran wormhole near Deep Space Nine. Except…"

"Except what? I need answers, Ensign!" Janeway barked.

Kim glared at his monitors in disbelief. "Captain, something is very wrong here. A type-139 anomaly shouldn't emit chronotron particles. But this one does."

"_Chronotron_ particles?" Chakotay groaned inwardly. _Oh no, anything but time travel!_ "Captain, we have to reverse engines, _now_!"

But before Janeway could give any orders – or even think of one, for that matter – _Voyager_ lurched forward violently, straight into the maw of the anomaly. Everyone, even Paris, was forced to shield their eyes from the sudden outburst of light when they were helplessly pulled into the wormhole.

A moment later Paris recovered from his initial shock. He blinked several times, clearing away the afterimage, then turned to his control panel – finding the readout screens dark.

"Sensors aren't functioning," he reported with infuriating calmness. "I'll have to fly by visual aid only. A good thing that the bridge has these great big windows."

"We are dead," someone from the back stations murmured tonelessly. Panic began to flicker through the bridge crew.

"This is only a temporary failure," Kim hurriedly stated, working furiously on his console, while Tuvok did the same on the backup systems' control panel. "Switching to auxiliary sensors… now."

The screens flickered back to life, even though the displays were a little blurred along the edges. _Voyager_ shook heavily, the quickly changing gravitation fields tossing her like a nutshell. Several crewmembers already began showing first signs of space sickness and stumbled away from their stations. Paris, however, was rooted firmly in his pilot's seat, leaning lightly forward, his moving surely, steadily over his navigation panel, his eyes gleaming with excitement. Apparently, he was the only one insane enough to actually _enjoy_ the ride.

_Voyager_ lurched again. Chakotay gritted his teeth and clutched the armrests of his seat so that he would not catapult onto the lower parts of the bridge. He asked himself, how long the hull would be able to withstand the violent gravitational pulls that battered the ship from all sides. As a skilled pilot himself, he found it hard to sit passively and let someone else do the work, but he had to admit that while he was very good, Paris certainly was even better.

Slowly, deliberately, the ship righted herself. The screens flickered. The main viewed dimmed, then brightened again – this time with the welcome sight of stars.

Janeway released a sigh of relief and looked up to Kim's station. "Ensign, can you verify our coordinates?" she asked.

"I'm trying," once again, Kim worked furiously for about twenty seconds, then replied in obvious surprise, "Captain, there is a binary star system, approximately forty thousand kilometres ahead. It contains a single G-class planet with a small moon. The computer identified the system as Epsilon Eridani 3, so the planet must indeed be Epsilon 3."

"In which case we should be in communications range of Starbase 80," Tuvok added with a slight frown.

"Try hailing the Starbase," Janeway ordered.

"No answer, Captain," Kim replied, after several tries. "I can't even discover any comm traffic on any of the known frequencies."

Janeway shook her head in disbelief. Starbase 80 was one of the huge space docks built at the end of the 22nd century, and – together with several identical ones – thoroughly overhauled a dozen times ever since, so that it looked brand new to the inexperienced eye. Drawing its energy from the large molten core of an E-class planet on the outskirts of Vulcan space, it was practically an independent city in space, with a population of over 25,000 – Vulcans, humans and dozens of other Federation species. It was impossible for such a large space port to go without communication even for minutes. Unless of course… unless the Starbase wasn't there anymore – or yet.

"Scan for any artificial structures within sensor range," she ordered.

Both Tuvok and Kim jumped into action, and this time it was the Vulcan who produced the results first.

"Captain, there _is_ a structure in stationary orbit on the other side of Epsilon 3," he reported, "and I can also locate some highly unusual energy readings near it. Unfortunately, as long as we are in the shadow of the planet itself, we cannot get any visuals."

"Then it's time for us to take a closer look," Janeway said. "Mr, Paris, follow the sensor data and approach the structure slowly; one quarter impulse. Keep warp engines ready, so that we can use them immediately if necessary."

"Yes, Ma'am!" the pilot slowly, carefully let _Voyager_ slide from behind the planet, and some ten minutes later the structure finally appeared on their main viewscreen.

"By Kahless," B'Elanna Torres breathed in awe; the fact that she referred to the mythical hero of her mother's people clearly showed her shock – she only did it in the most severe cases. "That thing is _huge_."

"Exactly five miles long," Tuvok said matter-of-factly. "It is divided into separate sections, that rotate at different speeds, most likely to provide different gravities for those who live on it. I believe it is safe to assume that the builders of this… structure did not have the technology to create artificial gravity."

"Is there anything similar recorded in the Federation databases?" Janeway looked at Paris as the most likely source of that sort of information. The pilot shook his head.

"Not even anything _remotely_ similar, Captain. I've never seen anything like that."

"Well, it _does_ look like a Tenrakan sausage," Neelix commented cheerfully.

Paris shot him a dirty look and replied to Janeway's inquisitive eyebrow. "Trust me, Captain. You don't want to know."

Janeway wisely gave up to ask any questions. The things Neelix found gastronomically stimulating could be disturbing at best to any other species. She had no doubts that Tenrakan sausage belonged to this particular category.

"Scan for lifesigns," she ordered instead.

"Sensors register two hundred and fifty thousand sixty-eight lifeforms," Kim reported, perplexed.

Everyone caught their breaths in astonishment. _A quarter million_ people? That must have been one of the hugest starbases ever!

"Are they recognizable?" Chakotay asked.

"Some of them," Kim replied. "There apparently is a numerous human population on that thing. The other species are completely unknown. I can register more than a dozen different ones."

"A dozen or so unknown species in Vulcan space?" Samantha Wildman, currently manning the science station, wondered. "How is that possible?"

"It is not," Tuvok answered seriously. "Unless, of course, we are _not_ in Vulcan space at all."

"But the instruments verify that we are on the right coordinates," Kim protested. "I have checked it twice. This _is_ Vulcan space."

"These might be the right coordinates," Tuvok said, completely unfazed by the enormity of their situation. "But I very much doubt that this is the same universe."

Before anyone could have reacted, Paris looked up from his control panel.

"Captain, we are hailed by that… that station. The call is on a completely unusual frequency and coming in through the navigation computer."

TBC


	3. Part 03

**STILL NOT IN KANSAS**

**by Soledad**

**Author's notes:** For disclaimer, rating, etc., see Part One.

Guerra is the technician from the pilot, played by Ed Wasser. Technicians Keeligan and Robertson are named after the actresses who played them in the first season episodes. Rastenn is the young Warrior Caste Ranger from the 5th season B5-episode "Learning Curve". His family relation to Neroon is my doing. The visual similarity between _Voyager_ and the White Star ships is something often addressed in fan circles, by both shows.

Apologies for the shortness of this chapter. It seemed the right point to finish this particular piece.

* * *

**PART THREE **

Commander Susan Ivanova, executive officer of Babylon 5, was having one of _those_ days. _Those_, describable only in the most colourful Russian terms. _Those_, raising her regular consummation of vodka by twenty per cent. _Those_ which worsened her mood to a level that made every member of the duty crew in C&C jump nervously whenever she was nearby. _Those_ days.

Of course, she had every reason to be in an exceptionally foul mood. There had been just too many bad things happening lately. The death of Ambassador Kosh. The strange events concerning Babylon 4. The disappearance of Jeffrey Sinclair into a thousand years in the past. Marcus Cole. Dr. Franklin's insane idea of finding himself while walking around in Down-Below in a drug-induced haze. The unnerving behaviour of the new Vorlon ambassador – unnerving even for a Vorlon, that is. The near-disastrous first counter-strike against the Shadows. The frozen telepaths in MedLab… the list went on and on. It had been simply too much. She was near her breaking point, and what was even worse, nobody was allowed to realize that. She was second-in-command. She had to keep up appearances.

Consequently, she was irritated beyond measure, pacing up and down in C&C like a caged tiger and barking at anyone who dared as much as to look into her direction. After two days in this inspiring working atmosphere, the crew developed the habit of working in eerie silence and with downcast eyes. Being on day shift was considered a punishment.

Everyone on duty nonplussed the more when Lt. David Corwin actually had the suicidal idea of approaching the Commander without being asked first. But again, Corwin took duty very seriously, placing it even above his own physical well-being.

"Commander, a ship of unknown configuration is coming out from behind Epsilon 3," he reported. Ivanova whirled around.

"What?" she practically jumped before the main viewer. "Let me see it!"

Technician Guerra switched a few buttons and displayed the red and brown marbled globe of Epsilon 3 on the big screen. In front of the lower half of that globe a small white ship was moving slowly forward.

"Full magnification," Ivanova ordered.

The display wobbled for a moment, then cleared again. Epsilon 3 now filled the whole screen, and the ship was clearly visible in detail. The C&C crew caught their collective breaths.

"It looks like the White Star!" Corwin, the only one of them who had got to see Sheridan's brand new ship, murmured is surprise.

Ivanova gave him a look that could have chilled the molten core of a planet over; then she turned back to the screen. The unknown ship had indeed a faint resemblance to the White Star – although with a much simpler, clearer outline. It was a pearl white ship, rather plain and streamlined in design, more or less the same size as the White Star. However, the two long, cylindrical-shaped… things that were attached to its lower hull made her suspicious. If those were weapons, their size was ominous.

"Scan that ship!" she spat impatiently. "And alert the fighter wing. They should standby to launch any minute it might seem necessary."

While Corwin put the Alpha-wing to alert, technician Robertson, a gentle-faced woman in her mid-thirties, tried to perform the ordered scans. After several tries, she looked up to Ivanova apologetically.

"I'm sorry, Commander. They seem to have some sort of energy shields that our scanners can't penetrate."

Ivanova swore fluently in Russian for about thirty seconds. In the already tense situation they were in (including a renegade Narn heavy cruiser lingering near the station) an unknown factor was truly the last thing they needed. Then she walked over to the comm unit, ramrod straight, hands clasped behind her back, chin raised in a defiant manner.

"All right," she said coldly, "hail them."

Technician Keeligan winced slightly – Ivanova in full attack mode was a power to be reckoned with – and hurriedly obeyed. "You can speak, Commander."

If possible, Ivanova straightened even more, her voice pure ice. "This is Commander Susan Ivanova of the independent space station Babylon 5 to unknown ship. Identify yourselves and state your business here."

Keeligan looked up from her station. "They're answering, Commander."

"Put them on the main viewer."

Keeligan did as he had been told, and the inside of what had to be the alien ship's bridge appeared on the main screen. Once again, the C&C crew sat with their mouths hanging open. For starters, that bridge seemed rather spacious for a ship of that size, arranged on two levels, painted in annoyingly soft and light, almost cheerful colours. Secondly, the crew of the ship seemed to be made up of humans – at least mainly.

From a very comfortable armchair in the middle – presumably the captain's chair – a thin, strong-featured woman rose to answer the call. She wore the same bright-coloured jumpsuit as everyone else around her, in her case in black and burgundy red, her reddish-brown hair twisted into a tight bun on the top of her head. She could be anything from thirty to fifty – it was hard to tell from her smooth face, but her eyes spoke of a great deal of experience.

"I am Captain Kathryn Janeway from the Federation starship _Voyager_," she said in a deep, slightly scratchy voice. "As for our business here… well, that is a long story. One that I would prefer to discuss with the commandant of this station."

Ivanova eyed her full of suspicion. "Are you coming from Earth?" she asked.

"In a manner, I guess, we are," the captain replied with a sad little smile. "However, it has been almost three years since anyone of us set foot on Earth. We've been on a… deep space expedition, you could almost say."

"Almost?" Ivanova frowned. The older woman nodded.

"It wasn't entirely… voluntary. Neither was our sudden appearance here. We crossed an anomaly in order to get home and ended up here – wherever _here_ is. But this is not something we should discuss on an open channel. My first officer and I," she looked at the quiet man with a tattoo on his forehead sitting on her side, "would like to come over and speak with the ranking officer of your station."

Ivanova thought for a moment feverishly. The captain seemed honest enough, but she still had her doubts. On the other hand, the strange ship seemed to have advanced technology, and they certainly could use something like that – and new allies.

"All right," she said, "come over with a shuttle. Six people tops, no weapons. I'll clear you for docking. Agreed?"

"Of course," Janeway nodded. "We mean no harm. All we want is to talk. _Voyager_ out."

The viewer went dark, the image of Epsilon 3 and the ship replacing Janeway's again. Ivanova turned to Corwin.

"Tell the captain to meet me in the docking port. Alert Mr. Garibaldi to join us with a security detail. Oh, and find me Lyta Alexander, ASAP. I need to know if they are telling the truth."

She turned on her heal and marched out of C&C, without waiting for an answer.

* * *

Nearby, hiding in hyperspace, Alyt Neroon sat in his private office onboard his huge war cruiser, the _Ingata_. He had been sent on a very special message by Shai Alyt Shakiri, the supreme leader of the Warrior Caste – a message unknown even to his most trustful aides. They had been monitoring the communication of Babylon 5 for days by now, but this was the first time they had heard something new, ever since Starkiller and Delenn returned from their latest mission with the White Star.

Neroon allowed himself a thin smile. Had Delenn really thought the Warrior Caste such fools that they would not locate her shipyards and not realize what she was doing all the time? Well, they did – and they also realized the danger that the seemingly fragile Ambassador represented. _And_ decided on an action matching that danger.

But this new event made him a little concerned. Unknown parties could disturb or even endanger his plans – he needed to know more.

"What do you think, Rastenn?" he asked his youngest aide, routinely concealing his fondness for the young warrior behind his usual, icy mask. Rastenn was not only his aide but also the firstborn of his oldest sister and his heir, in case he would not sire children of his own – quick-witted, brave and faithful to a fault.

Rastenn tilted his head to the side, scrutinizing the display on his uncle's monitor.

"It _does_ have similarities with the _White Star_," he decided, "but I believe this is a completely different technology. I never knew the humans possessed this level of knowledge."

"Neither did I, nor anyone else," Neroon answered, concerned. "This can change the balance of power considerably. I deeply dislike unknown factors, especially during a mission this delicate."

"Then we should learn more about them," Rastenn said. "I could go to Babylon 5 with a shuttle and a false ID, as a member of the Working Caste – I am a passable cook and could find work in the Minbari restaurant. My Working Caste dialect is flawless, as you know – they won't catch me."

"I hope so," Neroon replied, "as I need information more than I need a dead hero, right now. Not to mention that my mother would tear me to pieces with her bare hands, should anything happen to you."

Rastenn smiled. "I'll be careful. I promise."

"See that you are," Neroon warned him. "You may take the _Alota_ – she is a long-range shuttle and is not marked as Warrior Caste property. May Valen lead you to success."

TBC


	4. Part 04

**STILL NOT IN KANSAS**

**by Soledad**

**Author's notes:** For disclaimer, rating, etc., see Part One.

For those unfamiliar with _Voyager_: Tom Paris, the chief helmsman, is known as a rather colourful personality, who also has a deep affection for Earth history. The EC (environmental collar) is actually an early Andrew Probert design for Star Trek – The Motion Picture. I'm not sure if it was ever realized or used, but it looks cool.

* * *

**PART FOUR **

Terminating the connection, Janeway looked around his senior officers. "Suggestions?"

"One," of course, his trusted friend Tuvok was the first to speak. "I would suggest you only take humans with you for this first meeting, Captain. Until we know more about this… situation, taking anyone else only would lead to unwanted conflicts or misunderstandings."

Janeway nodded. "Your logic is flawless as always, Mr. Tuvok. Whom of Security would you suggest to be part of the away team?"

"Lieutenant Ayala," Tuvok answered without hesitation. "He is experienced in unarmed combat, should the need arise – and he is sufficiently intimidating when he chooses to."

The ex-Maquis Ayala, a man of few words and many grim expressions, grinned behind his work station. He couldn't deny his curiosity – that he would be able to see this place right away _and_ keep a protective eye on Chakotay pleased him.

"Very well," Janeway agreed. "Now, I'd like Ensign Kim to accompany us as well. We can't bring B'Elanna right now, but I trust Harry to get a good overall idea about the level of technology these people are using."

"Well, for starters, they don't seem to have transporter technology," B'Elanna added thoughtfully. "And considering the fact how closely related it is to replicators and holodecks, I'd risk to assume that they won't have those, either. Although one can never be sure, of course. Besides, there are dozens of alien races on that station. We can't even guess what _they_ are capable of."

"Which is why I intend to bring Lieutenant Paris along," Janeway said with a wicked smile. "If anyone can look behind appearances, Tom certainly can. All that gambling has to have some useful consequences, after all."

"Why, thank you, Ma'am," Tom grinned back at her, pleased to be part of the new adventure.

"Besides," Janeway continued, "your excellent knowledge of Earth history might come handy during the negotiations. If this… this universe has anything in common with ours, you would be able to locate the point where our histories started to part ways and develop differently."

"I'll download the history files to my tricorder, just in case," Paris offered, suddenly serious again. "So, Captain, you and Chakotay, Ayala, Harry and me… who'll be the sixth person in our little group?"

"I'd prefer to take the Doctor with us, but I'm not sure whether there could be some radiation that plays havoc with his mobile emitter," Janeway admitted. "We need someone with medical knowledge, though."

"That would leave Kes and me," Paris said, "and since Kes' ears are rather… visible, she can't come with us anyway. That leaves me. I can take the necessary readings, Captain. The Doc has trained me well enough."

Janeway looked at the EMH. "Would we need any biohazard suits?"

The holographic doctor shook his head. "No, captain. However, I'll suggest environmental collars, until I get a chance to analyse the air for any airborne viruses or bacteria."

"We'll send you a sample as soon as possible," Janeway promised. "Now that we have solved the question of a medical expert, we still need a sixth member for our away team."

"What about Ensign Wildman?" Chakotay asked. "She's our best xenobiologist, and with all those alien species over there, she would be a valuable asset."

"A good idea," Janeway rose. "All away team members, call for replacement and meet me in twenty minutes in Main Shuttle bay – dress uniform is required. Doctor, check the ECs and provide Mr. Paris with an updated medical tricorder. Dismissed."

* * *

"Alyt, a shuttle is leaving the alien ship," Derval, a young warrior assigned to watch the ship _and_ Babylon 5, reported to Neroon.

"That was fast," Neroon murmured, switching channels. "Rastenn, you are clear to launch."

"Understood," his nephew answered. "Initiating launch sequence… launching."

The _Alota_, Neroon's long, elegant main shuttle left the docking pad in an elegant curve and aimed the jumpgate.

"Ready to jump," Rastenn continued. "Activating jumpgate sequence… jumping."

* * *

John Sheridan hadn't taken the news very well… which was not surprising. He had gone through the same nerve-wracking events as Ivanova, with the significant difference that at the end _he_ had the ultimate responsibility for everything that happened on Babylon 5. The fact that Delenn was still on Minbar didn't improve his mood either. He had come to depend on her wisdom and unique view of things, even if it sometimes drove him mad. But that was part of the appeal.

Now he was standing in the docking port, waiting for some unknown human beings to come through customs, with Ivanova and Marcus at his side – he drafted the Ranger with the argument that he needed someone who could at least partially think like a Minbari – and Garibaldi and a security detail, armed to the teeth, flanking them. And he was undeniably nervous. After all that he had experienced on Babylon 4, another unexpected and unexplained event was the last thing he wanted. But there was no way out – he had to 'face the music', and he had to do so without Delenn's support.

The newcomers began to file through the customs gate. First came a single young Minbari male, in plain clothes that Marcus identified as belonging to the Working Caste. He handled his ID-card to officer Lou Welch who checked it, then nodded and allowed the Minbari to pass. The Minbari walked by the security detail, without sparing them as much as a glance, and faded into the background.

After him, a few other visitors passed – Narn, Brakiri, Drazi and even a couple of Gaim – all without an incident. Sheridan gave them little to no attention. He was focussed on the last group of newcomers; the ones he had been waiting for.

The group of six humans wore something that seemed to be the dress uniform version of their brightly-coloured jumpsuits: black trousers and boots with asymmetrically-cut tunics in burgundy red, gold or deep blue. Also, each of them had a square collar of some soft, silver grey material akin to thermal blankets; it covered part of their chests, shoulders and backs, and from a small instrumental pad on the front left side a breathing tube led to transparent breathing masks that covered their mouths and noses. The masks had no visible fastenings, and Sheridan wondered what the heck was holding them in place.

The slender woman with the bun, whom he recognized from the recorded conversation as Captain Janeway, stepped forth.

"Greetings," she said. "I'm Captain Janeway of the Federation starship _Voyager_. Thanks for allowing us to come to your station. We…"

"Freeze!" a sudden shout interrupted him, and one of Garibaldi's men jumped forward, aiming his PPG at the tall, blond young man in Janeway's group, who held a small instrument in his hand… or was it a weapon? "Drop that at once."

"I'd rather not," the young man answered, his voice slightly muffled by the breathing mask. "Tricorders don't react well to hard contacts with metallic surfaces. This is sensitive equipment, you know."

"Wait," Sheridan stopped the security guard. Then he turned to the newcomer. "What exactly, did you say, is that instrument?"

"It's called a tricorder," the young man replied. "It is a combination of a scanner and a mini-computer. I'm currently analysing the air in your station for viruses, bacteria and other stuff that might be harmful for us, to see if we can take off these breathing masks. They aren't very comfortable, you know."

Sheridan suppressed a grin. "Are you a doctor?" he asked, rather doubtfully. There was an air of flippancy about the young man that didn't quite match a physician."

"Nah, I'm actually a pilot," the other said lightly. "But I also double as a med tech in times of dire need." He clapped his instrument together and looked at Janeway. "I'm finished, Captain. Will send the results to Doc at once; I suggest we leave the ECs until he says otherwise."

"ECs?" Ivanova repeated with a frown. The young man tapped his own collar.

"Environmental collars. These things here. They have built-in biofilters. We use them in unknown environments that don't require full biohazard suits. They serve your own protection as well as ours. Who knows what germs we could be carrying that might be perfectly harmless to ourselves but deadly to others."

"Is that the reason why you are wearing gloves as well?" Sheridan asked. The young man nodded.

"Yea, I'm afraid friendly handshakes have to wait. We might be all humans, but we come from very different environments – better safe than sorry."

"Agreed," Sheridan was actually thankful for the precautions these strange human beings had taken. "I guess we have much to discuss. Shall we move this to the conference room?"

"That would probably be a good idea," Janeway said. "I'd prefer to keep these things to ourselves, at least for the time being."

"Then follow us, please," Sheridan gestured to Ivanova to lead, and the six newcomers, flanked by Garibaldi's armed guards, marched away.

* * *

Hiding in the shadows, Rastenn followed them, cursing soundlessly under his breath. He had memorized the layout of Babylon 5 before the start of this mission (his photographic memory came handy in such cases), so he knew that the group was heading towards the Blue sector, to where he had little chance to follow them. Not to mention that his choice to actually infiltrate the conference room was nigh to nothing.

At least one thing was crystal clear from the awkward meeting at the docking port: Starkiller and his people had obviously no idea who the newcomers were. Not even that abomination of a _human_ Anla'shok. He looked just as baffled as the rest of them.

Humans among the Anla'shok! Rastenn shook with anger by the mere thought of it. It had been bad enough that the rank of Entil'zha had been offered to a mere human, but at least Sinclair was a honourable man. Neroon himself said so, therefore it had to be true. The Alyt wasn't particularly found of humans, and if he paid respect to one of them, that individual had to be worthy. But the rest of them, contaminating an honourable institution, founded by Valen and entrusted to the Warrior Caste – _that_ was an outrage.

So was the recently revealed conspiracy to deliver the Anla'shok into the hands of the Religious Caste. More precisely, into the hands of Delenn. The one who had broken Valen's order that had kept the peace on Minbar for a thousand years. Shai Alyt Shakiri was right. The balance of power had been upturned, and it was of utmost importance to re-establish it.

He was so deeply involved in his disturbing thoughts that he forgot to look where he went – and walked directly into something soft and warm. Looking up in annoyance, his eyes met that of a chubby and rather agitated young Centauri male who had obviously walked just as blindly as he did.

"My apologies," the Centauri said breathlessly. "It was my fault… I've got too much on my mind, always too much… I'm sorry, I have to run. Ambassador Mollari doesn't like if I'm late. Apologies again…"

Rastenn fought hard to keep up the appearance of a meek Worker Caste member, instead of breaking the Centauri's nose. But the name of the Centauri ambassador hit a chord, and after a second, good look at the young Centauri recognition hit him.

"Ambassador Coto?" he asked. Indeed, this was the young Centauri who used to run the Centauri Embassy on Minbar – until he got recalled, all of a sudden. He was not truly an ambassador, of course, just a temporary attaché, but addressing a Centauri by a title higher than he actually wore always paid off.

Vir Coto blinked a few times like a startled bird. "Do I know you?" He couldn't remember this particular Minbari, but again, he had never been very good at remembering faces.

Rastenn shook his head, allowing himself a thin smile. "No, I do not think so. But I do remember you, Ambassador. I used to work for the Centauri Embassy for a short time."

Well, in a sense, that was even true. He _was_ assigned to spy on the personnel of the Centauri Embassy for a while – even on Vir Coto himself.

"Oh… I see…" Vir blinked nervously again. "Look, I… I'd like to talk about old times, but I really, _really_ have to go now. Ambassador Mollari is most upset that he hasn't been informed about these… these new humans, and…"

"Maybe later?" Rastenn offered, realizing the wonderful opportunity to find out a great deal about all that was happening on a diplomatic level, without taking any risks.

"Later?" Vir hesitated a little, but his deep craving for company finally won over his caution. He had _loved_ his position on Minbar, and unlike most Centauri, he could go along with the Minbari rather well. "Later is good. I… I usually have a drink on the Zocalo, shortly before station night. There… there is a little bar next to.."

Rastenn interrupted him with a raised hand. "I will find you, Ambassador. Don't worry."

"I'm not an ambassador," the young Centauri replied with disarming openness. "I've never been one, and you know that. There's no need to give me titles I don't deserve. Just… just call me Vir. That'd be enough."

"As you wish… Vir," Rastenn didn't offer his own name in exchange. That could wait. "You should go now. I'm told that Ambassador Mollari has quite a temper."

"Sometimes," Vir shifted his weight awkwardly, "but he's not a bad person. Not really. I… I must go now…"

He stormed away, leaving Rastenn behind in a rather… thoughtful mood. The young Star Rider continued his way to the nearest stop of the core shuttle. He needed to go to the Red sector and try to find some work. He needed that disguise in case he had to stay on Babylon 5 for an extended amount of time.

Things developed nicely for him. Now he'd have access to diplomatic information – if only he played the young Centauri attaché well. It didn't seem too hard, considering how naïve Vir Coto was known to be. Still, Rastenn asked himself if it was any honour in using someone like this. After all, Vir Coto had always been friendly with the Minbari, and seemed genuinely willing to make friends with him.

But he had no choice in this. The needs of Minbar were more important than anything else. Even the honour of a Minbari warrior.

TBC


	5. Part 05

**STILL NOT IN KANSAS**

**by Soledad**

**Author's notes:** For disclaimer, rating, etc, see Part One.

The Trek-related events from year 2260 were taken from the "Star Trek Chronology" by Denise and Michael Okuda. What Lyta refers to, concerning Paris' mental status, are the things that occurred in the 1st season Voyager episode "Ex Post Facto".

* * *

**PART FIVE **

Sheridan had chosen one of the smaller conference rooms in the Blue sector for his first official meeting with these strange humans, as Blue sector was the place of "political officialdom" as one of the more strange ambassadors had once put. He was not entirely sure but he seemed to remember that it was the Brakiri. The placing itself was due to the Blue sector's close proximity to the docking ports, so that visiting dignitaries didn't have to use the core shuttle if they didn't want to mingle with the common population of the station.

Of course, Garibaldi kept telling that the actual reason was the closeness of the MedLabs, so that potentially insane ambassadors could be put under medical surveillance without wasting precious time, but Garibaldi had a rather… unique view when politicians and other important officials were concerned. Sheridan sometimes asked himself how the security chief managed to do his job without being thrown out (or into the brig) for insubordination and the lack of respect for his superiors.

Sheridan suppressed a grin, seeing how his security chief and a big, burly man in a gold and black uniform were eyeing each other suspiciously. It seemed that security personnel had certain shared characteristics, regardless of their origins. The whole stance of the dark-haired, muscled man, as he kept almost too close to Captain Janeway and her tattooed first office, practically screamed "security" all over the place. Interestingly enough, his bearing seemed just a little more protective towards the first officer than the captain herself. Sheridan found that strange, but again, he couldn't really judge the behaviour of these people before he learned more about them.

When they entered the conference room, G'Kar, now officially part of their War Council, was already waiting for them, sitting calmly beside Lyta Alexander, who seemed a little nervous. Nobody could blame her, really; she still hadn't completely recovered from their risky action against the Shadows, and it was common opinion that the new Vorlon ambassador was a lot more unpleasant than the old Kosh had been. Nobody envied Lyta for having to work with _that_ Vorlon.

In her usual brusque manner, Ivanova ushered the visitors into the conference room and gestured them to sit down. Barely had they been seated, however, when the door hissed open again, admitting a highly insulted Londo Mollari in.

"Captain Sheridan," the imposing haircrest of the Centauri trembled with righteous indignation, "would you care to tell me why I wasn't informed that the emissaries of a new species are visiting Babylon 5? As the representative of one of the main powers in this sector, I have the right to participate in meetings with new species, in order to protect the interests of our Republic."

"Londo," Sheridan fought hard to keep his temper in check, "would you open your eyes and take a look at our guests? They are not a new species – they are humans, just like we are. This is strictly station business, between fellow human beings."

"Which requires the presence of a Narn, yes?" shot back Londo. "Of a Narn who doesn't even officially represent his own people? Tell me, Captain, do you really think that I became ambassador by being a fool?"

"No, you got the job because nobody else wanted it," G'Kar commented with a smug grin, and Marcus had a hard time to hide his grin.

Londo's head turned a very interesting shade of purple, but before he could have erupted, Janeway raised a hand and turned to Sheridan.

"Captain Sheridan, if you don't mind… we have no objections against the ambassador's presence. If it serves the peace on the station, he is welcome to join us."

The unexpected turn caused Londo to open and close his mouths several times, without as much as a single tone coming out. Marcus ducked behind Garibaldi; otherwise he'd have cracked up from the mere sight of it. Sheridan hesitated a little.

"Well, if you really don't mind, Captain…"

"We do not," Janeway assured. "We have nothing to hide, and maybe the ambassador's presence would even prove helpful."

For his part, Sheridan rather doubted that, but he gave in gracefully. Introductions were made, and they finally settled down to discuss things in a civilized manner.

"You have told Ivanova that you were on some sort of deeps space exploration," Sheridan started. "Would you care to tell us more about that?"

Janeway nodded. "In a moment, Captain. But first I'd like to set some facts straight. Can you tell me what year this is, according to Earth reckoning?"

The resident humans and the two aliens glared at her as if she had just lost her mind before their eyes, all of a sudden.

"Which _year_?" Ivanova repeated, mentally preparing to alert Dr. Hobbs in MedLab.

"Yes," Janeway said seriously. "I assume you can tell us that. It's not such a complicated question, is it? So, which year is this on Earth?"

"Why, 2260, of course," Sheridan answered, more than a little bewildered. Janeway nodded.

"That explains a lot," she said slowly. "You see, Captain, where _we_ come from, it's 2374. On Earth, anyway."

For approximately two minutes, it was absolutely still in the conference room. Sheridan cast a questioning look at Lyta Alexander, and the telepath gave a barely visible nod. The strangers apparently spoke the truth – or at least what they strongly _believed_ was the truth.

"So, does this mean that you actually come from the future?" Sheridan finally asked. Crazy as it sounded, it was no more impossible than pulling Babylon 4 a thousand years back into the past – an event that had just happened a couple of weeks ago.

Janeway shook her head. "I'm afraid the answer is even more complicated than that." She turned to the blond young man who had introduced himself as her chief pilot and med tech. "Mr. Paris, what have our history files recorded from the Earth year 2260?"

The young man consulted something that looked like a very sophisticated electronic notebook. "Nothing out of the ordinary, Captain. The USS _Enterprise_ was on her second five-year-mission under the command of Captain Christopher Pike. The Karidian Company of actors had great success on their tour of official installations under sponsorship of the Galactic Cultural Exchange Program and got several awards for their performances of classic Shakespearean plays. Last official mission reports of the exploratory vessel S.S _Beagle_ are recorded from this year. Two archaeological expeditions were launched: the one of Dr. Robert Crater to planet M-113 and the one of Dr. Roger Korby to planet Exo III. That's all."

"Do any of these events ring a bell with you?" Janeway asked. All humans belonging to Babylon 5 shook their heads. "Well, then it seems that Mr. Tuvok was right. My chief of security," she added as an explanation. "He assumed that we might have ended up in an alternate universe. It wouldn't be the first time. Starfleet vessels have experienced such a phenomenon several times during the last hundred years or so. Have you noticed any temporal disturbances lately?"

Sheridan exchanged uncomfortable looks with his officers. "We have. But that is not something I am allowed to talk about. All I can see is that there was a serious temporal instability in Sector 14, not so long ago."

"Do you know what caused it?" Janeway asked.

"I do," Sheridan said with a shrug; since Londo had known about the Great Machine way before him, there was no reason for secrecy. "It's a piece of ancient technology we can't even hope to understand. It's below us, buried miles deep under the surface of Epsilon 3. It's called the Great Machine."

"Can this technology possibly be used to get us back to our own time and universe?" Janeway asked.

"I really don't know," Sheridan admitted ruefully. "We can try to contact the guardian of the Machine and ask. But I can't promise anything."

Janeway sighed. "Well, that's a start, if nothing else. In the meantime, I believe the best thing would be for us to remain near Babylon 5, or else we could cause serious damage to the timeline of your own universe, Captain. Is there any way to make ourselves less… visible? Our technology is clearly different from yours, and I'd prefer not to announce our presence from afar."

"You can dock your ship inside the station," Ivanova offered. "There is a docking bay where only the Vorlon ship docks, and it's unnerving enough for people to usually avoid it like the plague. It's harmless, as long as nobody goes too close – can you keep your crew in safe distance?"

"Of course," Janeway replied coolly. "We are used to deal with alien species and technology. And my crew knows how to obey their orders."

Ivanova nodded, completely unfazed. "Then it's settled. I'll transfer the coordinates to your helm station after this meeting is adjourned."

"Captain," Ensign Wildman said, turning to Sheridan, "is there a chance for me to consult your chief medical officer? It would make the analysis of our respective physiologies so much faster; we'd like to get rid of the breathing masks as soon as possible."

"Well, at the moment we don't exactly _have_ a chief medical officer," Sheridan admitted, a little uncomfortably, "but I'm sure Dr. Hobson would gladly work with your. Marcus, could you show Ms…"

"Ensign Wildman, sir."

"Could you show Ensign Wildman to the MedLabs?"

"With delight," Marcus rose, produced a slightly theatrical bow and escorted the blushing blonde woman out of the conference room.

"We'll return to _Voyager_, then," Janeway stood, too. "Captain Sheridan, could you provide us a copy of _your_ history files? It'd be interesting to know if our respective histories even had anything in common."

"If we can have your files in exchange…"

"You can. But Captain, please make sure that nobody else but your most trusted officers will ever see them. We fully intend to leave this universe, as we have no role in it, but just in case we couldn't… we'd need to blend in, you understand. Even if we do it on a far-away colony."

"I understand," Sheridan thought about it for a moment. "What if you only show me them, without downloading them into our system?"

"That's acceptable. Mr. Paris," Janeway looked at her helmsman, "please see that it's done, once we have docked in safely."

"Yes, Ma'am," the blond pilot answered absent-mindedly and stood to follow her, but he gave Lyta suspicious looks on his way out.

* * *

After Garibaldi had escorted the visitors out and even Londo and G'Kar had left, Sheridan looked at Lyta curiously.

"Do you think that pilot realized that you were scanning them?"

The telepath shook her head. "I don't believe so. But he was definitely uncomfortable… and I've felt very stabile shields around his mind, put there by a strong telepath. I've never seen anything like that before. I don't think the person who put them up was human."

"But you could read him nevertheless?" Ivanova asked.

Lyta nodded. "The shields only protect the more… personal areas of his mind. I think he must have been manipulated or abused telepathically at some point of his life, and someone put up those shields to prevent such things in the future. He himself has no telepathic abilities whatsoever."

"What about the others?" Sheridan asked.

"Captain Janeway is a very strong personality," Lyta said. "Her thoughts are ordered and disciplined, but clear. I don't believe she is hiding anything. The first officer is a strong one, too, with excellent shielding, however, his shields are natural. Both seem to be used to work with telepaths, which might have taught them how to shield their stray thoughts. But they are honest."

"What about that young Asian man who didn't utter a word?"

Lyta smiled. "His thoughts are like an open book. He does have some discipline but little experience. Apparently, this is his very first mission, and aside from being rather homesick, he is also excited about all the new things he gets to see and learn. The lady scientist is open and honest as well."

"That leaves the security guy," Sheridan said. "He _is_ a security officer, isn't he?"

"Of course. Also, he and the first officer seem to have been some sort of freedom fighters previously. I couldn't go too deep, as they are obviously trained to discover thorough screens, but the two definitely have a shared past."

Sheridan nodded. "That was my impression, too. Tell me; am I imagining things or is there some sort of… tension between Captain Janeway and her first officer?"

"There is," Lyta answered, "but I couldn't dig any deeper to find out what it is. Nor would I do so without their permission. The rules are very clear about this."

"Well, this is more than we knew an hour ago anyway," Sheridan stretched. "Thank you, Lyta. We will, of course, pay your usual fee for your help; we might also ask for it again."

* * *

Rastenn had no difficulties finding a job in the Minbari restaurant. His Worker Caste ID was genuine, after all – not for the first time, the fact that his mother had married a high-ranking member of the Worker Caste (a renowned architect of Yedor) came handy. Contrary to the human's foolish ideas about the Minbari caste system, the only factor that counted in the judging of an individual Minbari was what he or she did in service of society. And Rastenn's father was highly respected, not within his own caste alone but by the other castes as well.

His mother – like many other Minbari warriors – had been killed in the Earth/Minbari war, and Rastenn's heart called him to follow her on the path of a warrior. Still, he had also followed his father's advice and learned several professions that could help him during his covert missions. He could disguise himself as a cook or as a gardener if he had to, or work as a communications expert or as a clerk. This time he chose to be a cook, as it made him easier to move among people of various origins without raising any suspicions.

Now that his daily work was done, he strolled out to the Zocalo to locate his clueless contact in the diplomatic corps. Thanks to a few well-placed questions he had already found out which bars the Centauri usually preferred; he was a little surprised to learn that this particular Centauri regularly met Delenn's aide, but that probably came with the job. The aides of high-ranking politicians were usually frustrated, and whom could they share their frustrations with than one of their colleagues in a similar situation?

It took him less than ten standard minutes to locate the young Centauri, sitting alone in a bar, staring at his half-empty glass in defeat. Rastenn shook his head in slight amusement. Obviously, Ambassador Mollari had another of his famous temper tantrums; otherwise his aide wouldn't look like a recently kicked _gok_.

The Minbari entered the bar quietly and slid onto the bar stool next to the pouting Centauri. "Greetings, Vir," he said softly. "How was your day?"

* * *

Dr. Lillian Hobbs was tired. Horribly tired. Things had been full of stress even before Dr. Franklin decided to embark on a strange journey of self-exploration, but since she had to work for her absent boss as well she had the feeling that she practically hadn't stopped working for weeks. At all.

Due to the current events, MedLab personnel had their hands full, 24 hours a day, and beside her regular work and the workload of Franklin that she had to manage somehow along her own, Dr. Hobbs also had to organize the work of her subordinate. She was practically head of the MedLabs – only without the title and without the paycheck that usually came with that position. Sure enough, Dr. Hernandez, veteran physician of Babylon 5 who had started her job here way back, during the time of Dr. Kyle, did her best to help, and that was not a small thing. But even Maya Hernandez had only two hands and one head; and she wasn't the youngest. She needed her sleep to be able to work properly.

So, when Marcus Cole walked briskly into MedLab One, escorting a gentle-faced blonde woman, who – according to the transparent breathing mask covering the lower part of her face – must have been one of those strange humans mentioned briefly in the Captain's communiqué to the senior officers, all Dr. Hobbs could do was to groan. MedLab personnel had learned quickly that the Ranger's appearance usually meant trouble, and the last thing she could use right now was even more work.

"Hello doctor," Marcus greeted her cheerfully. "Let me introduce you to Ensign Wildman from the starship _Voyager_. Ensign Wildman, this is our guardian angel, Dr. Lillian Hobbs."

"Nice to meet you," Dr. Hobbs forced herself to politeness. "What can I do for you, Ensign?"

The blond woman smiled. "Samantha will do. Or Sam, if you like. I need your help for a quick analysis. We have to find out if our people carry any germs that could be harmful for you… and vice versa."

Dr. Hobbs nodded. That seemed a sensitive precaution. "Very well. I'll need a blood sample from you and probably a sample from the air in your ship, too. We better go to the IsoLab for that, though."

* * *

Docking in to Babylon 5 proved more difficult than Tom Paris had expected. The station used a rather efficient guidance system for docking ships – unfortunately one that turned out to be incompatible with _Voyager_'s systems. B'Elanna and Harry worked frantically for about half an hour to bypass half of the board systems; otherwise they would have simply shut down. Janeway _had_ suggested including Seven of Nine, but B'Elanna flatly refused to work with the ex-Borg. She was not the only one. Aside from the captain herself, who quite enjoyed the challenge, everyone was nervous around her. Considering that so far she had tried to backstab them twice, this was no wonder. However, the captain didn't seem ready to give up her efforts to fully integrate the ex-drone into the crew.

Finally, after much work and more than a little maneuvering on Tom's side, _Voyager_ was safely placed in bay 13, opposite to a ship of unknown configuration and of strange beauty. Janeway made a ship wide announcement that nobody was allowed to get near that ship, unless they wanted to cause really, _really_ bad diplomatic issues and didn't need any replicator rations for the next six months or so. The crew knew her well enough to know that these were no idle threats and wisely decided to follow orders. Besides, the mere sight of that ship made them extremely uncomfortable.

"This is definitely organic technology," B'Elanna commented, watching the constantly changing patterns on the ship's smooth skins. "Somehow it reminds me of Species 8472 and their ships. I don't know why."

"The ship is alive," Kes murmured softly, her wide eyes focused on those patterns as well. B'Elanna shot her an intriguing look.

"How do you know? We haven't even scanned it, due to the captain's orders."

"It calls to me," Kes replied simply.

* * *

After all the excitement of the day, Sheridan finally managed to return to his office and handle some of the paperwork that had been piling up on his desk for quite some time. God, he hated doing this, but there was only so much unpleasant work he could dispatch to Ivanova. Sometimes he just had to clench his teeth and go through it.

He had he barely started working when his comm unit beeped. Damn things never let you finish anything. He hit it and growled. "Sheridan. Go."

"Captain," the voice of Ivanova replied, "you've got an invitation to visit _Voyager_ and examine their history files in case you are available."

"I'm _not_," Sheridan replied with slight irritation. "Unlike other people who are just visiting here, I have work to do. Send Marcus instead. He's always had an unhealthy interest in Earth history, back to the 11th century or so. I'm sure he'll have one hell of a good time."

"Understood," Ivanova said in her usual clipped manner. "Will do. C&C out."

* * *

Dr. Hobbs and Ensign Wildman were nearing the end of their work. The analysis of the blood sample was finished, and now they were working on the inoculations. As they had had regular contact with very different alien species, both kinds of humans were carrying several germs that would have been deadly for the other part, indeed. Fortunately, creating a vaccine was not a real challenge for someone with Dr. Hobbs' experience and medical skills. They had also contacted _Voyager_'s sickbay a few times, and after having made the EMH's acquaintance, Lillian Hobbs came to the opinion that Stephen Franklin had been a rather easy boss to work for. She felt truly sorry for the sprite-like alien girl who had been introduced as the head nurse of the ship.

"She must have the patience of a saint if she can work with that… that hologram, without deleting its program twice in every hour," Dr. Hobbs said, filling the syringe with the freshly tested vaccine.

"She has," Wildman smiled," but trust me; she is a lot stronger than she looks. And she has the doctor wrapped around her little finger, even if it doesn't look like that."

"What race does she belong to?" Dr. Hobbs asked, while Wildman rolled up her sleeve and offered her forearm for inoculation. They had arrived to first name basis half an hour ago; Lillian had never reached this level of friendship with a complete stranger this quickly before, but Sam Wildman truly was a very nice woman.

"They are called the Ocampa," Sam replied, wincing a little when the needle pierced her skin; she mentally apologized for every time she had complained about hyposprays in the past. "They are a fascinating species. I'll tell you more when we'll be able to visit each other's place without restrictions. What did you say, how long it will take until the vaccine can provide sufficient protection?"

"Six standard hours," Lillian Hobbs inoculated herself with practiced ease. "I'll start inoculating MedLab personnel first, then the members of the staff, and so on – it could take days until everyone has the necessary protection. We'll also have to produce huge amounts of the vaccine."

"We can help with that," Wildman offered. "Give me a sample, and I'll have the doctor work on it. We can have our whole crew inoculated in a few hours, then we can send over the rest to you."

"That is a good idea," Hobbs prepared a phial with a sample; then she looked up, and seeing Marcus entering MedLab One again, she groaned. "That's not possible! We've just got rid of him an hour ago, and here he is again!"

"Sorry, doc," Marcus replied with his infuriating grin. "The captain asked me to go to _Voyager_ in his stead, reviewing those history files. I thought I'd escort Ms Wildman back when the two of you are ready."

"Fortunately, we are," a somewhat calculating look appeared in Dr. Hobbs' dark eyes. "In fact, it's a good thing you've dropped by. We can inoculate you right away."

Marcus backed off a few steps. "N-no, thanks. I don't like being poked by doctors. I'll manage."

"No, you won't," Dr. Hobbs countered with smug satisfaction. "Everyone needs to be inoculated – especially you, since you are just about to board _Voyager_. Come on, don't be such a sissy. It won't hurt a bit."

"That's what you doctors always say," Marcus grumbled, but he held his arm obediently nevertheless. "So, does this mean that I won't need these bloody breathers?"

"Unfortunately, you'll have to keep them on for another six hours," Wildman said apologetically. "But after the vaccine has unfolded its full effect, you'll be able to move freely on our ship."

"Bugger!" Marcus didn't like that a bit, but he knew that there was no way around it. He'd endure the breathers, for the chance to see that ship from the inside. "Are you ready? Then let's go."

* * *

Truth be told, Sheridan was not the only person who felt frustrated on Babylon 5; Rastenn found himself fighting increasing frustration as well. After sitting with Vir for almost two standard hours in the bar, he still wasn't any closer to learning any important facts than he had been when he arrived. Not that Vir had been quiet – on the contrary, the Centauri had babbled and ranted and whined about everything… save the one thing Rastenn would be interested in.

Despite his frustration, this evasive behaviour caused some reluctant respect in the Minbari. Apparently, Vir Cotto was not the idiot Rastenn had thought him to be. Gaining intelligence from him would prove a lot more demanding than expected, but of course, in the end Rastenn would get what he wanted. Neroon's nephew had been well trained in gathering information; one distracted Centauri attaché might be a challenge but no true adversary.

The flow of Vir's speech was slowly ebbing down, so Rastenn used the opportunity to take his leave. He knew that one of the strange humans was still on the station – Neroon's well-placed spies, all loyal members of their own clan, would have alerted him if the blonde woman had left – and he wanted to take a closer look at her. Leaving the bar, he leisurely strolled through the Blue sector towards the MedLabs where a clan member, faking some mysterious weakness, had spotted the visitor.

He had nearly reached the MedLab section when a sudden movement forced him to step back into the shadows. A dark-haired, bearded human, wearing the uniform of the Anla'shok, hurried along the corridor and entered MedLab One without hesitation. A few moments later, the Anla'shok left again – this time in the company of the blonde woman, who still was wearing her breathing equipment. They headed straight towards the docking bay… together.

Rastenn looked around, trying to decide what to do. Should he follow them and risk being detected or beat them to the docking bay and risk losing them from sight? Finally, he ran to the next stop and caught the core shuttle that had just arrived. The large, transparent windows made it possible to follow the path of the other two. They kept heading to the docking bay.

Rastenn beat them there, of course. He even had the time to hide among the high piles of cargo the dock workers hadn't come to deal with yet. He had an excellent view from behind the barrels and could see how the Anla'shok and the blonde woman entered bay 13. The one where the ship of the Vorlon ambassador was docked – and, according to their spies, also the ship of the strange humans.

The young Minbari decided to take the risk of informing his uncle directly. With just a little luck, he could prevent his call being discovered by C&C – his computer skills had helped him with many such actions in the past. In a seemingly carefree manner, he strolled to the shuttle bay, where the _Alota_ – falsely registered as part of the regular shuttle traffic between Minbar and Babylon 5 – was docked and went aboard, trusting the customary human inability to make any difference between individual Minbari. For the dock workers, he was just one bonehead among the many who visited the station.

He activated the comm system of the shuttle, switched on the scrambler and the additional coding mechanism and sent a message on the usual frequency of Minbari cargo vessels. He had to be careful; not only because of the humans, but several Minbari cruisers were also patrolling along the station, protecting it from any attacks, under Delenn's personal orders. But it was rather unlikely that any of those Religious Caste members fancying themselves as warriors would find a message considering the rising of fruit prices on the Zocalo suspicious.

Of course, when Neroon decoded the message aboard the _Ingata_, it said: _There might be a problem. You should come._ Nothing more. But that was all that Neroon needed.

TBC


	6. Part 06

**STILL NOT IN KANSAS**

**by Soledad**

**Author's notes:** For disclaimer, rating, etc., see Part One.

Yes, I know that strictly seen Ivanova wouldn't learn about the existence of the other Zathras brothers until much later, but I needed to bend canon a little to make this story work. My apologies for the change – and for the slightly fragmented style of this chapter.

Part of the holodeck dialogue was directly lifted from the 1st season Voyager episode "Heroes and Demons". Since Marcus was so fond of Arthurian legends, I thought he would like Beowulf, too.

* * *

**PART SIX **

Marcus Cole was having the time of his life. The inoculation had finally unfolded its full effects, so he was able to put the breathers aside and enjoy his visit on board _Voyager_. At first, he was a little shocked to see an Earth ship this… bright. Earthforce destroyers were usually big, grim-looking things one served on but never really considered a home. Minbari cruisers had an eerie elegance, an air of alienness about them that made it hard for a human to feel comfortable, even without the reminiscences of the brutal war between the two races little more than ten years earlier. Not even the _White Star_ was completely free of it.

_Voyager_, however, had something of a flying five-star-hotel look to it, despite her smaller size. The quarters completely lacked the dimness that was so characteristic for Babylon 5's similar accommodations, every single person had almost obscenely much room at their disposal, everything was just a hair's breadth from being too bright and cheerful – and the holodecks were a marvel.

The whole adventure had started in the quarters of the blond pilot, Tom Paris. Marcus had brought the history tapes from Babylon 5, but when they tried to feed them into Tom's computer, they ran into an incompatibility problem again. Tom grumbled something about this getting old and called for his friend, Ensign Harry Kim, who was apparently some sort of computer wiz, and while Harry laid several very clever alternative pathways to make the two systems "talk to each other", as he put it, the three of them talked about literary preferences.

As it turned out, Earth history of the two different universes had been parallel for quite some time. Harry was well versed in legends about Arthur (and listened with great interests to Marcus' tale about a particularly late delivery of Avalon), while Marcus was no ignorant when it came to the Eddas and Beowulf. Tom Paris, who obviously preferred a different (i.e. much later) period of history, finally got fed up with their "medieval chatter" and after Harry had finished bypassing half the computer relays, sent them out to "play on the holodeck", while he started the comparative reviewing of the files, backwards from the latest entries.

"What's a 'holodeck'?" Marcus asked in confusion.

"Come with me," Harry practically dragged him out of Tom's quarters and into the transport tube they called a 'turbolift'. "Holodeck 2," he told the lift, then grinned at Marcus. "Don't worry, you'll love it!"

A few moments later they were standing in front of what looked like a pair of huge, silver-coloured doors. Harry touched the control panel next to the entrance and said, "Computer, initiate program Kim oh-twelve."

"Program complete," the artificial female voice replied. "Enter when ready."

"Open," Harry said; the doors slid aside and they stepped into a dark forest. Marcus winced a little when the doors snapped close behind them, but looked around curiously nevertheless.

"What is this place? Looks like the scenario to some medieval movie."

"This is a holographic simulation, based on Beowulf," Harry stated proudly. "I've programmed it last year and progressively refined the details. It's as perfect now as I ever can make it. Let's change first, shall we? I've got some clothes that will match the simulation. We'll go as Beowulf and his shieldmate."

"Beowulf didn't _have_ a shieldmate," Marcus pointed out, eyeing the costumes suspiciously. "Or did he have one in your universe?"

"No," Harry admitted, "but I want you to be part of the game, and your current clothes won't exactly match. Why do you wear this old-fashioned cloak on a space station anyway?"

"Why are you wearing boots with your pajamas?" shot back Marcus, giving Harry's uniform a critical glare.

"These are not pajamas," Harry replied, a little irritated. "This is a regular uniform, and boots are part of it."

"My point exactly," Marcus shrugged. "We don't choose our uniform; and even if we did, my choice would be the one I'm wearing, rather than your pajamas."

Harry shook his head. "You are hopeless. Now, get changed, so that we can start our adventure."

Minutes later, wearing proper 6th century gear (with the exception of Marcus' fighting pike which he was unwilling to leave behind), they started their way down the narrow path leading between the dark trees. After only a few steps, an arrow hissed out of the miss and embedded itself into a tree, dangerously close to Marcus's head, and a deep, no-nonsense female voice said, "Speak as a friend... or stand challenged."

Marcus looked in the direction where the arrow had come from, and saw a blonde woman, clad in shiny medieval armour and pointing a huge broadsword at his throat, stepping out from under the trees.

"I am Freya, shield maiden, daughter of King Hrothgar," she added, giving them a thoroughly menacing look. "I hold this guard post against any intruders who would bear us harm. So declare yourselves. I will hear your answer before you march any further through this land."

"I'm called Beowulf," Harry replied. "I have come to your land to fight the monster Grendel and free your forests from its evil."

"Are you insane?" Marcus hissed. "We are in no shape to face any monsters here!"

Harry gave him a pitying look. "Marcus… these are _holographic_ monsters. They may _look_ real, but the safety systems of the holodeck won't allow us to get seriously hurt."

"What about her?" Marcus nodded toward the blonde woman.

"She's a hologram, too," Harry said.

Freya waited patiently for them to finish their private conversation, then she sheathed her sword again. "Brave warriors are always welcome in our halls," she said. "Follow me! I'll take you to the King."

* * *

Meanwhile in Sickbay the EMH, Ensign Wildman and Kes were busily working on Dr. Hobbs' vaccine. The prototype was perfectly good for humans, but they had to modify it for every single species on board _Voyager_ – and on Babylon 5.

"Dr. Hobbs gave me a copy of the xenobiology files of Babylon 5," Sam Wildman said. "If the two of you are willing to work on the variations for our crewmembers, I can try my hand on the major alien species on the station. Some of them seem to have a truly amazing metabolism."

The EMH gave her an irritated look, though Sam still failed to understand how a hologram could _be_ irritated in the first place. Whatever subroutines the EMH was using, he made a very convincing imitation.

"I will work on the vaccine for our crew, Ensign," he said in a manner that made it very clear what he thought of non-professionals giving him suggestions. "In the meantime Kes can start inoculating the human members of the crew. The sooner they can start moving freely around the station the better. 140 crewmembers suffering from cabin fever is nothing I'm looking forward to. At least Vulcans do have some discipline."

'Yes, doctor," Kes replied with a patient smile and grabbing a whole tray with about a dozen prepared hyposprays, each containing six shots, left. Sam Wildman wisely refrained from any comment. In spite of being a hologram, _Voyager_'s chief medical officer had a wide variation of moods, most of them foul. It was better to leave him alone.

* * *

Several sectors farther Sheridan finally decided to call it a day – and not entirely an unsuccessful one. Though he still failed to find a pattern in the Shadow attacks, at least he had managed to finish a great portion of his paperwork, and _that_ was definitely a relief. He secured everything, closed his office and walked over to the war room to talk to Ivanova.

Susan was already waiting for him – still in uniform, which revealed that she had worked overtime again. It was not good for both ranking officers to overwork themselves like this, but there was nothing they could do about it. Lt. Corwin, while a reliable young man, was much too inexperienced to act on his own in the case of crisis. And lately almost everything on Babylon 5 could be considered as some sort of crisis.

"Have you managed to talk to Draal about our newest problem?" Sheridan asked, taking hold of the thermos can with the coffee. He knew of course that the coffee would be stale (it usually was), but even stale coffee was better than no coffee at all.

Ivanova shook her head, holding out her own mug for a refill of the barely identifiable brown liquid. "No, he was… otherwise occupied. I talked to Zathras, though."

"_Zathras_?" It was hard to decide whether Sheridan's expression had been caused by that statement, by the taste of his coffee or by the complete lack of the latter. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but haven't we left Zathras behind on Babylon 4?"

"No, sir," Ivanova replied with a blank face; "that was _Zathras_." And before Sheridan could be strongly tempted to call MedLab, she added, "Apparently, there are ten of them… well, only nine now. All called Zathras. Only the pronunciation is different – although I couldn't point out the actual difference. Anyway, _this_ Zathras told me that Draal has used up much of his strength pulling that stunt with Babylon 4 and right now he needs to… erm… recharge."

"But he _will_ be able to help us with the _Voyager_ problem, won't he?" Sheridan asked. Ivanova wriggled in her seat uncomfortably.

"Honestly, sir? I just don't know. We'll have to contact him again, later, when he has rested a while. Or wait for him to contact us. Zathras made it very clear that he can't be disturbed right now."

"Great," Sheridan glared at his coffee in frustration, "just great. I wonder what else can go wrong?"

Ivanova shot him a warning look. "If I were you, I wouldn't give the universe any ideas. Sir."

* * *

Lyta Alexander found the MedLabs busy like an anthill when she entered to ask for her inoculation. Since Sheridan had made it clear that they might need her services while dealing with the strange humans (and eventually even with their alien crewmates), it seemed only logical that she got the vaccine as soon as possible. The enhancements she had received on the Vorlon homeworld _might_ have protected her, at least to a certain extent, but she wasn't taking any unnecessary risks. For once, even the new Vorlon ambassador agreed with her – or at least he hadn't made any objections – so she decided to get the whole thing over with.

"Oh, Lyta, good," Dr. Hobbs smiled at her, filling a syringe; Lyta had announced herself timely, so she was expected. "I've already prepared your dosis. If you have any problems, allergic reactions, whatever, please tell me immediately."

"Of course, doctor," Lyta smiled back at the friendly woman and rolled up her sleeve. "Has Ensign Wildman left already?"

"She's been gone for hours," Lillian Hobbs delivered the shot with the practice earned in long years spent in the service of medicine. "She'll come back tomorrow, though, and I'm looking forward to it. She is a very nice woman and a good scientist. Do you think these people are very different from us?"

"In certain things, yes," Lyta rubbed her arm to get rid of the stinging the needle left. "They seem to be more open… more trusting. I almost believe that they'd have a different attitude towards telepaths, too."

"They should," Dr. Hobbs shrugged. "According to Sam Wildman, there are several members of that Federation of theirs whose races are completely made up of telepaths. It would be rather stupid of them if they had the same paranoid attitude as most humans of our world have."

"What?" Lyta stared at the doctor in utter shock. "A whole _race_ of telepaths?"

"More than one," Dr. Hobbs corrected. "At least three such races are represented on _Voyager_, I heard. I think you're gonna have some very interesting encounters, once they are able to move around Babylon 5 freely."

"Well, I… I guess so," Lyta said, more than a little shaken; then she stood. "Thank you, doctor. I have to go now. The ambassador asked me to take a look at his ship. I think he's not very happy about those strangers being so close to it."

"Lyta," the doctor hesitated a little, searching for the right expressions, "that ship… It's more than just a piece of amazing organic technology, isn't it? Dr. Franklin once said that the Vorlon ship is _alive_. Is that true?"

"More than you could imagine," Lyta whispered. "More than you'd ever like to know."

* * *

Kes had finished giving shots to the human crewmembers of _Voyager_; it took her several turns, but now she was done. After her first round, the EMH had inoculated her with the modified vaccine, warning her that her metabolism, due to her young age even for an Ocampa, could react differently than a human body would, and that she should rest after having finished her job. Indeed, she felt just a little dizzy, and resting sounded right… but then she felt that pull again.

The ship… that strange ship across the docking bay never ceased to call out to her, ever since they had docked in. Sometimes it was like a far-away humming; like a song that one could hear but was unable to make out the words belonging the melody. A song full of mysteries and promise to unveil all the secrets of the universe. And sometimes it was just a call, very direct and personal; a demand that she headed this call and listened.

Slowly, almost like in a trance, Kes put down the tray with the empty hyposprays and left Sickbay. But she didn't head her quarters as the EMH had ordered. She headed towards the landing exit – the doors that led to the outside in cases _Voyager_ was in drydock or landed on a planet.

* * *

Captain Janeway's ready room definitely had an air of a cozy little saloon about it at the moment. As none of the senior officers were needed during Gamma shift, Chakotay, Tuvok, Torres and Paris sat with their captain, nurturing their comfort drink of choice. Harry was still on Holodeck Two with the bearded young man from the station who seemed to be one of Sheridan's most trusted people and who – for some strange reason – called himself a Ranger.

"So, Mr. Paris," Janeway said, taking a sip of her coffee and closing her eyes in bliss; having Seven of Nine overhaul the replicator in her ready room had been a wonderful idea. After two years, coffee actually tasted like… well, like _coffee_. "Did you manage to find out at what point the Earth history of our respective universes began to diverge?"

"Yes, Captain," Tom handed her a PADD. "It seems that the first alternate events appeared in the early 1990s' – right before the Eugenic Wars."

"They didn't have those?" Chakotay asked, breathing in the fragrance of his herbal tea – a smell only Tuvok could appreciate beside him.

"No, sir," Tom said. "All events of some importance noted are various Mars survey missions. The first politic changes apparently took place in the early 21st century, like several totalitarian governmental coups. And, of course, the first Lunar colony, established at Mare Tranquilitis."

"So we've found the breaking point?" Torres asked.

"In a sense, yes," Janeway answered in Paris' stead. "But we must consider the possibility that we are simply dealing with an amazing case of parallel history, not with the same one that has broken apart three centuries ago. After all, no Federation ship has ever encountered aliens like the ones that populate Babylon 5."

"Before leaving the Academy, I had the opportunity to discuss quantum mechanics with Commander Data from the _Enterprise_," Kim added. "During one of their missions, they reached a point in subspace, where different quantum realities began invade each other. At one point, they had several hundred _Enterprise_s facing each other, and they had a really hard time to get one lost officer back onto the right ship."

"And you believe that is what's happened to us as well?" Janeway asked, a little doubtfully. Kim looked at Paris who shook his head.

"No, Captain. The parameters in all those quantum realities were basically the same; just the effects they had caused were different. In our case, the parameters don't seem to be the same, do they?"

"True enough," Janeway nodded. "I'm afraid this is a puzzle we'll never be able to solve. Let's just hope that this… this Great Machine down on Epsilon 3 can get us back to our own universe."

"Have you got word from Captain Sheridan yet?" Chakotay asked.

"Just a short message," Janeway replied. "Apparently, they have already contacted the Warden of the Machine, whoever that might be, but received no clear answer so far. It seems that the thing needs to… recharge. But nobody has any idea how long that would take. We'll have to wait… and if necessary find another way."

"Well, as long as we are waiting, we should do a somewhat bigger overhaul of the engines," Torres suggested. "This place is as close to a drydock as it could be. The people might not have what we need, but they might have things we could modify according to our specs."

"The question is: how can we pay them for those things," pointed out Tuvok. "Federation credits would not be accepted here, I deem."

"We'll have to find out what _they_ need," Torres shrugged, "and then bargain. Worked every time for us in the Delta."

"Good idea," Janeway agreed. "As soon as your inoculation comes to full effect, you should go over to the station with Tom, B'Elanna, and… well… _sniffle_ a little."

Torres shot Paris a glare that she would usually spare for a dead Targ, but nodded nevertheless. Paris on the other hand seemed rather content with the assignment.

"Since weapons are theoretically prohibited on the station, we should look for something less obvious," Janeway continued. "Tuvok, what would you suggest to… Tuvok, are you listening to me?"

The Vulcan sat ramrod-straight in his seat, listening intensely to something only he could hear – probably some telepathic signal.

"Kes," he said abruptly and touched his comm badge. "Tuvok to transporter room. Locate Kes and beam me directly to the same location, one point five metres from her current position."

* * *

When Lyta finally reached Bay 13, her heart nearly stopped from the sight. The fragile, sprite-like girl whom Dr. Hobbs had pointed out to her as _Voyager_'s head nurse, stood so close to the Vorlon ship that she could almost touch it. And the ship was changing its colourful skin patterns with a speed that reminded of a quickly rotating kaleidoscope. And that was not all. After a few minutes, it even extended a tentacle-like appendage, not threateningly as the other Vorlon ship had always done whenever someone had come too close, but with a surprising gentleness, and it touched feather-like the girl's face who closed her eyes – and smiled.

The magic of the moment was broken, however, by two different but equally agitated voices. One belonged to a tall, dark-skinned and pointy-eared officer in golden and black uniform, who unexpectedly materialized from a golden-shimmering energy beam.

"Kes, no!" he cried in shock and looked as if he wanted to grab the girl and tear her away from the living ship.

"Do _not_ interfere!" Lyta warned him; the ship might have been tolerated the girl for some stranger reason, but it would _not_ tolerate the other alien. "It's not harming her."

With the other sound she was much too familiar by now. It sounded like a whole nest of angry hornets, and Lyta was not surprised to see Kosh – or, to be more accurate, Ulkesh – gliding forth from the shadows. With the two large, horn-like appendages on his EV-suit, the new Vorlon ambassador offered a disturbingly malevolent look. _Angels and devils were related beings, after all,_ Lyta thought, more than a little concerned for the girl. She knew already what this new Vorlon was capable of – and she knew that she couldn't help Kes.

Hearing that sound, the tentacle coiled back from Kes as if in fear and melted back seamlessly into the ship's skin. At the same moment, a wave of sizzling energy was unleashed from the Vorlon, grabbed Kes and lifted her into the air. The alien officer was already moving to interfere, protectiveness written all over his face, but Lyta caught his arm.

"No… you can't help her. You'd only make him more angry, and believe me, you won't want to do _that_."

Due to the physical contact, she could clearly feel the brooding lava of volatile emotions before the other clamped down his shields hastily. Those were _very_ strong shields, that of a high-level telepath, and they held like Fort Knox. She understood at once how unusual it had been to catch the alien officer in such an unguarded moment. The girl must have meant a lot to him.

Kes, however, was still writhing in the Vorlon's punishing energy grip. Lyta became worried, doubting that the small-boned little creature would last long against the enraged Vorlon, but couldn't think of any way she could help her.

"Kes," the alien officer suddenly said, "focus! Think of the Bothans… of Species 8472… You can do this. Free yourself!"

To Lyta's utter surprise, the girl suddenly opened her eyes, a hard expression appearing on the sweet face of hers. In the next moment, the Vorlon's grip was broken. Kes landed on her feet like a cat and focussed her inner strength once again, hurling the huge Vorlon against the nearest bulkhead with a force the impact of which made the whole bay tremble with the aftershock. Then she collapsed on the floor – surprisingly enough, still conscious.

Lyta could feel the shock of the Vorlon when Ulkesh hurriedly retreated. She could understand it. Vorlons were so used to their own superiority. Being beaten by such a seemingly fragile girl must have shaken him to the proverbial bone.

The alien officer knelt down next to the girl and took her hand. "Kes… how are you feeling."

"I am fine," the girl had a little difficulty breathing, despite her brave words. "A little shaken, but it's getting better already."

"What were you doing here? The captain told us not to go near that ship."

"The ship… it _called_ to me, Tuvok! It said I was the first new thing it has seen… the first new _song_ it has heard in its entire life. It was _curious_. It wanted to _learn_."

"Could you feel anything else from it?" The officer, whose name was apparently Tuvok, asked.

"It is old, very old," Kes replied, "and it is sentient… to a certain grade. But its thoughts were much too alien for me. I could barely understand when it tried to speak to me directly."

"Did you feel anything from Kosh?" Lyta asked quietly. So far she had been unable to get a true glimpse into her new boss' mind. The girl gave her a long, thoughtful look.

"Darkness," she finally said.

"That is enough for now," the officer interrupted. "You need to rest, Kes. I will take you back to your quarters." He laid a hand on the girl's forehead and looked her straight in the eyes. "Sleep," he ordered in a low voice, and within a few moments, Kes' eyes fluttered close and she fell asleep quickly.

"Can you do that to anyone? "Lyta asked. Tuvok shook his head.

"No; at least not so quickly. But Kes is my pupil, thus her mind is particularly perceptive towards mine. I have been teaching her how to use and control her abilities for two years."

"You are very protective towards her, aren't you?"

"She is my pupil. And she is very young, even for an Ocampa."

"How old is she? Fifteen? Sixteen?" Lyta was really curious now.

"She is three," the officer answered matter-of-factly. "Ocampa only live nine years."

"_Nine_ years? Are _you_ an Ocampa, too?" Lyta tried to guess if the difference in the ears was only a matter of age by this species. "How old are you then?"

"I am not an Ocampa," Tuvok carefully gathered the sleeping girl in his arms. "I am a Vulcan, and I am a hundred and ten standard years old. My people are rather long-lived. Most of us live easily two hundred years, some even more."

"And you're all telepaths, aren't you?"

"That is correct," the officer turned to leave. "My apologies, Ms. Alexander, but I have to take Kes to her quarters now. She cannot completely channel her powers yet, and when they surface in an emergency like this, she needs to rest afterwards."

"Of course," Lyta hesitated for a moment, but she just couldn't let such an opportunity slip from her hands. "I'd… I'd like to talk to you later. About your people… and hers… I'm the only human telepath on Babylon 5, and I don't have the chance to be with people like myself too often."

"That would be acceptable," the officer answered. "I shall ask Captain Janeway if I may invite you to _Voyager_ where we can talk undisturbed. If she agrees, I will leave you a message. Live long and prosper, Ms. Alexander."

* * *

Under normal circumstances Alyt Neroon couldn't have slipped into Babylon 5 unnoticed. Not the regular way, that is. But the Star Riders had had their well-placed operatives on the station for years – disguised as Religious or Worker Caste members, as revealing their true identities would have raised unwanted suspicions – and they knew… alternate ways to smuggle someone onto the station.

Wearing the simple hooded robe of the Worker Caste over his warrior's uniform, Neroon seemingly arrived onboard a Brakiri ship and simply vanished before he would have to go through customs. No matter how well Michael Garibaldi knew his station, there were methods to override even his security codes and to avoid even his ever-vigilant eyes. There were not many who could do so, granted, but a few talented and highly motivated technicians of the Star Riders definitely were among those.

And so Neroon managed to get to the meeting place of his clan – a rather unseeming little room in Down Below, thought to be inhibited by an elderly trader who had lost most of his money – and soon after him Rastenn slipped in as well.

Only one of the clan operatives joined them – one of the lesser ranks, so that their contact to spymaster Thorann would not be followed back, should they be spied upon. For the exactly same reason, Rastenn was not allowed to approach the spymaster either, not even to save his own life. Each operative had only two contacts at any time: the primary one whom they met in irregular intervals and on various places, and the backup, whom they were only allowed to contact when they had found hard proof that the primary one was dead or captured. That was what made the spy net of the Star Rider clan so efficient, wherever they were assigned.

"Speak!" Neroon ordered his nephew and the female operative called Nidell. "What have you learned from this alien ship?"

Rastenn gave a short but thorough report of what little he had been able to find out through Vir and the seemingly ill operative in the MedLabs. Nidell added a few details, collected by her own contacts. As she had been living on Babylon 5 for more than three years, she had a fairly wide circle of casual acquaintances among many races.

Neroon didn't take the news kindly. "More Humans?" He asked with a frown. "And you actually believe that this tale about them coming from a different universe might have some kernel of truth in it?"

"I am fairly certain that it is true," Rastenn replied. "And it seems that Ambassador Mollari and the staff of Babylon 5 believes it as well. If nothing else, the medical precautions show just how seriously they are taking the whole problem."

"Well, maybe," Neroon still wasn't entirely willing to give in. Did anyone but Starkiller and his immediate staff have closer contact with these… other humans?"

"That is the most concerning part," Rastenn reported. "I saw that Human Anla'shok enter their ship hours ago. He still hasn't left. It seems that someone might be trying to make new alliances behind our backs."

"Do you think that the Religious Caste could have their fingers in the game?" Neroon frowned again. "Or even Delenn herself?"

"Delenn is still on Minbar," Rastenn reminded him, "and I know of no Minbari who'd have had any contact with these… these aliens. But we know that the Human Anla'shok is close to her. He could act as her emissary."

Neroon nodded, his face hardening. "This is not good," he said. "The situation is getting out of balance. We might have to apply harder measures than we have originally planned."

TBC


	7. Part 07

**STILL NOT IN KANSAS**

**by Soledad**

**Author's notes:** For disclaimer, rating, etc, see Part One.

Ensign Jurot is mentioned in the Voyager episode "Counterpoint". All personal details are made up by me. Starbase 80 isn't mentioned in any of the episodes, but in the "Equinox"-novelization this is the place where Captain Ransom once served as a science officer.

**Trivia:**

I'danian spice pudding is an extremely caloric dessert, very popular on DS9. One of Jake Sisko's favourites.

Jestral tea was a favourite beverage of Lwaxana Troi.

Mantickian Paté is a dish once concocted by Lwaxana Troi. All the other details are my doing.

Parthas, the Acamarian vegetable dish, was served to Riker by a woman called Yuta.

Uttaberries are a blueberry-like fruit native to Betazed.

Information taken from Denise and Mike Okuda's "Star Trek Encyclopedia".

* * *

**PART SEVEN **

Tuvok kept his word; in the next morning, station time, Lyta received a message that the Vulcan officer would gladly meet her and give her a tour on _Voyager_. That the tour would be limited to the public areas was obvious. So obvious that Tuvok didn't even feel the necessity of mentioning it. But that was all right with Lyta. She wasn't interested in technology. She was interested in _people_. Several whole societies of telepaths – that was more than she could imagine.

Fortunately for her, Ulkesh was still seething in his quarters. Otherwise he might have insisted to occupy her during this visit, and carrying the unpleasant Vorlon inside her was the last thing Lyta wanted right now. She hoped for a quiet morning in the company of fellow telepaths, not for a spying mission.

So she was relieved when by 0800 Ulkesh had still not contacted her. That meant that – save an unexpected emergency – she would be free for the day. This new Vorlon was even more settled in his ways than the old Kosh, and nothing short an all-out Shadow attack could have forced him to change his pre-scheduled plans. Maybe not even _that_. Most of the time Lyta found Vorlon rigidity tiresome, but in this particular case she was grateful for it. It allowed her to make plans – well, to a certain extent.

When she reached Bay 13, a pretty, dark-haired young woman in a blue uniform was waiting for her already. She had the most exotic, Byzantine eyes Lyta had ever seen, and a soft, equally exotic accent.

"Greetings, Ms. Alexander," she said. "I'm Ensign Crisa Jurot, from Quantum Mechanics. Commander Tuvok asked me to accompany you for a short time. He's been briefly delayed – staff meeting with the captain – but will join us as soon as possible."

She spoke English very well, but Lyta could feel that it was not her native tongue – and not because of the accent alone. Also, parallel to her spoken greeting, Lyta could also feel a gentle mental brush, barely more than a caress. She looked at the ensign's ears – they were _not_ pointed, nor had they the multiple ridges Kes' ears had.

"No, I'm not an Ocampa; Ensign Jurot smiled; she didn't have to be a telepath to guess correctly what Lyta was thinking. "I'm a Betazoid. We look like humans, but there are significant differences when it comes to the internal organs. And yes, we are a telepathic species as well."

"Was that the reason why Mr. Tuvok asked _you_ to fetch me?" Lyta asked. Crisa Jurot nodded.

"There aren't many to chose from," she said sadly. "Initially, there were three Betazoids aboard _Voyager_, but two of us died years ago. And Ensign Vorik, the only other Vulcan, isn't exactly known for his social skills."

"So, you are the only one of your kind here?" Lyta felt sorry for the younger woman. This was a loneliness she knew all too well. "It must be hard for you."

"Sometimes," the Betazoid admitted. "But mostly, it isn't so bad. I have a few human friends who don't mind having me 'in their heads', as they put it, time and again. And when I really need a mutual exchange, I can always go to Kes. She has been a great help for me."

"What about the Vulcans? They are telepathic, too, aren't they?"

"They are. But they are also intensely private. "They have reached the nearest turbolift and stepped into the cabin. "Mess hall," the Betazoid said, and the 'lift swung into motion with unexpected smoothness. "You must understand one thing when it comes to Vulcans," she continued. "They are an extremely disciplined species. Humans call them repressed and often make fun of their stiffness, but there is a good reason for that."

"What reason?"

"By nature, they are a violent people. And I _mean_ violent. There was a period in their history when they very nearly eradicated themselves, using not only weapons of mass destruction but heir own incredible mental abilities as well. According to history files, it was… ugly."

_That_ Lyta could imagine. The secret experiments of the Psi Corps, the ones that resulted in the metamorphosis of Jason Ironheart and other frightening events, had shown her the damage uncontrolled psi-powers could do.

"How did they manage to prevail, after all?" she asked.

"Five thousand years ago, a great philosopher named Surak rose among them and started what is now called the Reformation," the Betazoid explained. "He taught Vulcans a whole new way of living, based on logic, on the complete control of emotions, on mediation and a life in the service of society. He taught them to despise violence, to the extreme that they won't even eat meat, as it would mean to kill animals for their own survival."

"Sounds very elated," Lyta commented, a little doubtfully. "And they really manage to pull it off?"

"Unless they are in the rutting season, but that only happens once in every seven years," the Betazoid replied with surprising rudeness; then she shot Lyta a rueful look. "Sorry. It's a common joke, and not even a very tasteful one. But yes, they usually manage to pull it off. But it comes at a high price. They need regular meditations to keep their control, and there are… throwbacks. It's like surfing – you can ride the waves if you are skilled enough and keep training all your life, but it is by no means safe."

Lyta remembered her short brush with Tuvok's mind – and shuddered involuntarily. "I guess a Vulcan out of control wouldn't be a very… pleasant sight."

"Trust me; it is not," Jurot said seriously. "I've only seen Tuvok on the loose once, and I'm not eager to repeat the experience. It was beyond frightening."

"What caused him to lose control?"

"Touching a mind full of violence and darkness." The turbolift stopped. "So, here we are. This is our mess hall. In order to save energy (and, unfortunately, the food replicators use a great amount of it) we mostly eat natural food. Neelix is our cook," the Betazoid nodded towards a small, stocky alien who looked like some sort of spotted skunk and wore asymmetrically cut clothes in colours so bright that they hurt Lyta's eyes. "He is also our morale officer – a function made necessary by the fact that we all have to cope with his cooking."

"I wish someone had warned me," Lyta grumbled. "I could have had breakfast on Babylon 5." Jurot grinned at her.

"Don't worry, the captain gave me some extra replicator rations to offer you civilized food. We want to make a good first impression, after all. So, what would you like?"

"I don't know," Lyta shrugged. "Something different, I guess. I can have human food on Babylon 5 all the time. Can you suggest me anything interesting?"

"Sure I can. The question is: are you up to… _interesting_ experiences?"

"I'm not that picky. And I like trying out new things. As long as it's agreeable with human metabolism, doesn't move on its own and doesn't bite back, I'm game."

"All right then," the Betazoid stepped to one of the food replicators. "Computer, one Mantickian Paté with a big glass of uttaberry juice and one Acamarian _parthas_ with a cup of Jestral tea. Oh, and two I'danian spice puddings."

To Lyta's astonishment, a mere twenty seconds later a big tray with two pates of steaming food, a tall glass with some milky substance, a china cup of fragrant tea and two small, square glass cups with some very appealing dessert materialized in the open food slot. Ensign Jurot grabbed the tray and carried it to an empty table in the far corner from where they had excellent view on the whole mess hall.

"Here, try this," she said, putting the plate with the food that looked like a big slice of pie before Lyta. "Despite its name, this is a traditional Betazoid dish, eaten on family festivities, usually prepared by the eldest woman of the family. And uttaberries, though native to Betazed, are a little like Terran blueberries, so they should agree with you."

Lyta carefully tried a bit of the pie – to her pleasant surprise, it was very tasty. "This is excellent," she said, taking another bite, this time a much bigger one. "What are _you_ eating?"

"A spiced vegetable dish from the planet Acamar Three. It's called _parthas_," Jurot pushed her own plate closer to Lyta. "Care to try it?"

Lyta did – and started coughing violently after the first bite. "It's… really spicy."

"Oh, sorry!" The Betazoid actually blushed in embarrassment. "I keep forgetting that most humans don't share my preference for hot spices."

"It's not so bad," Lyta took a sip from the uttaberry juice; it had a wonderful flavour, one that was wild and sweet at the same time. "I do like spicy food – it just took me by surprise. I think I'll stick with my Paté, though. So, tell me something about you. How long have you been on _Voyager_?"

"A little more than two years," the Betazoid sighed. "This was my first deep-space assignment. I had worked two years in one of the scientific labs of Starbase 80 after the Academy and asked for a reassignment to _Voyager_ because my second-grade cousin had become chief helmsman here. Unfortunately, she died right at the beginning of the mission."

Her sorrow hit Lyta like a tidal wave. The human telepath put down her fork and took the ensign's hand. "Show me," she said quietly.

* * *

Rastenn was surprised to find Vir on the Zocalo this early. Usually, the young Centauri spent his morning in his quarters, doing paperwork for Ambassador Mollari or studying the customs of one of the dozens of races present on Babylon 5. Contrary to common opinion, Vir Cotto was an intelligent, curious and gentle person who took his responsibilities seriously. Fortunately for him, important persons at court – too superficial to see beyond his slightly comical appearance – never took _him_ seriously. This saved him from being killed for political reasons and allowed him to follow his own morale codex.

Today, however, Vir had apparently left his sanctuary at an unusually early time and was now sitting in one of the gambling casinos instead of his preferred bar. Looking around, Rastenn soon discovered the reason for Vir's unusual behaviour. Ambassador Mollari was at one of the gambling tables, taking unnecessarily high risks – and losing steadily.

Ambassador Mollari also seemed to be very, very drunk. Which for someone who could hold their liquor the way Londo Mollari could was not a small thing.

Rastenn climbed onto the uncomfortably high bar stool next to Vir – this was a human establishment, and humans, for a reason Rastenn didn't even try to understand, preferred uncomfortable and dangerous furniture – and asked quietly, "How long has he been here?"

"Since last night," Vir replied, without looking at the Minbari. "Gambling, drinking – and losing."

Rastenn raised a hairless eyebrow. As humans would have said, Vir looked like hell. "And how long have _you_ been here?"

"For about he same amount of time," Vir sighed dramatically. "I had to find him first, you know."

"What is wrong with him?" Rastenn asked. "This is unusual, even for Ambassador Mollari."

"He is desperate," the lack of sleep and the concern for Londo had apparently made Vir a little careless. "His position at court is… precarious at the best. His enemies are moving against him. They have already made him kill one of his best friends. If he doesn't show any progress in making contact with these… these new humans, and that soon, he might be next. The recent meeting with Minister Virini was not… pleasant. And the minister is about to return to Babylon 5 – in the company of Lord Refa, none less…"

Rastenn stored the information for later use. Events at the court of Centauri Prime seldom remained without consequences for other races, so keeping informed was of utmost importance. Then he carefully dug deeper.

"Could this visit turn out to be dangerous for Ambassador Mollari?"

"Londo has been careless," Vir stared at the bar counter before him sadly. "He should never have accepted the services of Mr. Morden and his associates. Some favours simply come with too high a price. He should have remembered that."

But before Rastenn could ask what _that_ was supposed to mean, they were distracted by a group of unknown people who had just walked into the casino.

* * *

Right after the staff meeting, the first group of the _Voyager_-crew was ready to explore Babylon 5. They wore civilian clothes – the ex-Maquis looking just a touch more martial than the original Fleeters – happy to be out of uniform for a change, but of course they kept their comm badges. Theoretically, they were to avoid emergency beam outs, but Janeway was not taking any risks.

"Better an advantage lost than a crewmember dead," she had said, and all senior officers agreed.

The first group, that would be followed by several others later, contained of Chakotay, Ensign Wildman with Naomi (she had a lunch invitation from Dr. Hobbs, whom she had promised to bring the toddler as well), B'Elanna Torres, Tom Paris, Harry Kim and the Delaney sisters. The latter two, as per usual, chose to dress identically, in order to cause some entertaining confusion. Besides, they wanted to go shopping.

"You don't even have any money that people would accept here," Harry pointed out to Megan Delaney.

The twins exchanged identical, calculating looks, then Jenny Delaney turned to Paris, practically purring, "Ooh, I'm sure Tom will think of something. After all, there's that place called the Zocalo… with all those gambling establishments…"

"Definitely not!" Chakotay interfered sternly. "Just that it's clear, Paris, you are not, I repeat, _not_ allowed to gamble. Or to play poker. Or to do anything that would get you in trouble on your first unofficial visit."

Paris gave him a look full of innocent indignation. "Really, Chakotay, I'm not such a trouble magnet as you obviously think."

"Yes, you are," Chakotay replied, not the least convinced. "And since you _are_ a trouble magnet, you have two choices: either you agree with the 'no gambling'-rule, or you stay here as long as we dock in Babylon 5."

"Can't do," Paris said lightly. "The captain wants me to sniffle around, remember?"

"Yes, but she doesn't want you to cause any trouble," Chakotay answered, completely unmoved. "Your choice, Paris."

Tom rolled his eyes. "All right, all right. What about pool?"

"Pool is okay, as long as you're not cheating."

"Chakotay," Tom said patiently, "when have I _ever_ needed to cheat in pool?"

"Overconfidence comes before the fall," Torres warned him, grinning. Tom made a sour face.

"Very funny, B'Elanna. You know as well as I do that I can wipe the floor with anyone in pool."

"Anyone you know, that is," Harry added, just to tease his friend. The others laughed.

"What are you planning, Harry?" Sam Wildman asked, adjusting Naomi on her arm.

"I'll go with the others for a while, but I promised to meet Marcus for lunch," Harry answered. Then he turned to Chakotay. "And you, Commander?"

"He comes with me," Sam said. "I need someone to look after Naomi while having girl talk with Lillian Hobbs. There were several possible candidates for the job – and the Commander lost."

They laughed again and left _Voyager_, eager to discover the more… colourful sides of Babylon 5.

* * *

"Do you recognize them?" Rastenn asked Vir, watching the strangers like a hawk.

They didn't seem to realize that they were being watched. Taking the two identical-looking women in the middle, they strolled leisurely through the casino, aiming to the tables used for the peculiar human game called pool. A third woman, this one clad almost like a male, followed them with the smooth, feline strides of a born predator. Unlike the other two, she had short hair, shorn above her shoulders, and delicate ridges in the middle of her high forehead. Rastenn found her most exotically beautiful, in spite of her alien looks.

"The blond man is their chief pilot," Vir replied, recognizing the human male from Londo's illegal recording. "The other one is some sort of operations officer, whatever that might be. I don't know any of the females," he added, looking at the persons in question worriedly. "Those identical ones do look dangerous."

Rastenn shrugged. "They are just ordinary human females. But the third one… now, _she_ is something. I wonder what race she might belong to. She can't be human, not with that forehead – but she is exquisite."

"You can ask her," Vir suggested absent-mindedly, still keeping an eye on Londo. Rastenn shook his head.

"No… not yet. The direct approach is not always the best one. I shall watch her a while first… all of them."

And so they watched the blond pilot playing pool. First he played against his own friends, showing almost artistic skills in the game. They took turns, paying two against two for starters, then they continued one against one. The others weren't bad either; especially the dark-haired young man and the woman with the intricate forehead ridges gave him a tough time, but in the end the pilot beat them all.

At this point they already had quite the audience. People watched the games with rapt interest, applauding the best moves, firing on the player of their choice.

Then the betting began. Humans and even a few Centauri who knew the game started to bet on the possible winner, heightening the stakes at every game, offering the winner a good percentage. Soon enough, some really good local players got interested and challenged the blond pilot.

He accepted every challenge. And he beat them all.

New players entered the game. The audience grew and so did the stakes. The tension was so high it could almost be physically touched in the suddenly very quiet casino. A Brakiri was trying his luck against the blond pilot now, and he was good. Very good.

People began to bet against the human.

The game went on and on. The chances seemed even. But Rastenn, who only watched to admire the excellent hand-eye-control this particular game required, saw something in the human's blue eyes. Something that made him shudder.

"He is just playing with the Brakiri to raise the stakes," he whispered to Vir. "He could wipe him from the table at every turn. He will undoubtedly win… and then there will be trouble."

TBC.


	8. Part 08

**STILL NOT IN KANSAS**

**by Soledad**

**Author's notes:** For disclaimer, rating, etc. see Part One.

Some lines concerning _kal-toh_ were directly quoted from the Voyager episode "Alter Ego".

* * *

**PART EIGHT **

The pool game between the blond pilot of _Voyager_ and the Brakiri came to its final round. The two players were even at the moment, but the human still had one shot left. One shot to decide all. For the first time, Rastenn could see intense concentration on that smooth face. The human bent forward, fixing his goal one more time.

"Eighth ball in the side pocket," he murmured and made his shot. The ball ricocheted from the table border and rolled into the right pocket as if it had a navigation system of some sort.

Great applause erupted. But the Brakiri and those who bet on him were clearly enraged.

"That was _not_ a clear shot!" One of them shouted. "The human was cheating!"

The blond pilot collected his prize calmly. "As if I'd need to cheat to beat you," he allowed himself the arrogant remark. "Have you not watched the earlier games?"

The remark, of course, was like oil poured into the fire. In a minute, there was a heated argument, the losers trying to get their money back – not from the winners but from the human who seemed the easier target. Vir moved almost by instinct to interfere, but Rastenn grabbed his arm and kept him on his place with an iron grip.

"We should stay out of this," the Minbari warned. Not that he would want the pilot to be beaten to bloody pulp, but there was no honour in getting killed in a brawl, caused by some gambling disagreement.

"B-but somebody should c-call security," Vir babbled.

"They will," Rastenn said soothingly. "The bar owner, most likely. Stay out of it; this is not our fight."

Vir wasn't completely in agreement, but he wasn't a fighter by nature, either. To his great relief, however, the strangers apparently were. Even the identical-looking, skinny women, who relied on speed and agility rather than on strength. The two males showed thorough training and seemed well used to fights, too. And the third woman…

Rastenn watched enraptured the small female whirlwind in action. Her punches were completely different from anything he had ever seen – they probably belonged to some alien fighting style – and her slim body obviously hid the strength of a male twice her size. _And_ she was quick and deadly accurate with her aim. Rastenn thought to hear the sickening _crunch_ of breaking bones a couple of times. Vir looked as if he could get sick any time, but the Minbari was completely smitten.

Still, the strangers were in clearly minority, and none of the locals seemed willing to risk helping them. Rastenn tried to calculate how much longer they would be able to last (especially as a few Drazi seemed to really warm up to the action) and whether security would arrive in time. He nearly missed the new actor in the play.

The human Anla'shok stormed in like a whirlwind, already kicking around while extending his denn'bok. As much as Rastenn was disgusted seeing the time-honoured weapon used in a mere brawl, he had to admit that the puny human had an excellent fighting style. He must have been taught by a great pike master – what a shame.

But at least he _was_ able to use the denn'bok properly – and very creatively, hitting the respective weak spots of the involved Drazi, Brakiri, Pak'ma'ra, Centauri or even humans unerringly. His skills, combined with certain moves designed for the lighter build and greater flexibility of the human body, made him a mean fighter. Apparently, the humans had at least learned _something_ in the training center of Tuzanor.

The arrival of the Anla'shok turned the tables on the attackers very quickly. Unlike the strangers he was not unarmed, and a denn'bok could cause some rather painful injuries in a skilled hand. Soon enough, half a dozen injured people of various races were lying scattered on the floor. Rastenn had to admit, albeit reluctantly, that the human _was_ skilled indeed.

"That's enough!" a rough voice barked, and a group of uniformed humans, armed with PPGs, stormed into the casino, led by a lean-faced man whose name, if Rastenn remembered correctly, was Zack Allen. Security had finally arrived.

* * *

Lyta Alexander and Commander Tuvok from _Voyager_ were sitting in the mess hall, sharing some herbal tea and staring at something that looked like an unordered heap of metallic rods. Tuvok called the… thing _kal-toh_ and said that it was a Vulcan game.

"Is this some sort of chess?" Lyta asked. She was not that great at chess, nor did she particularly like it. Tuvok raised a tolerant eyebrow.

"_Kal-toh_ is to chess as chess is to tic-tac-toe," he replied. Lyta rolled her eyes.

"Forget I even asked. Now, show me how to play this… this _kal-toh_."

Tuvok seemed delighted by her request – well, as delighted as a Vulcan ever could be, ensign Jurot commented mentally – and Lyta tried the game… only to lose spectacularly after the fourth move.

"A common error among novice players," Tuvok commented. "By placing the _t'an_ on opposite sides of the _kal-toh_, you are attempting to introduce a spatial balance, a strategy that will most certainly fail."

"Really?" Lyta was more surprised than annoyed. "Why is that?"

"_Kal-toh_ is not about striving for balance," Tuvok explained patiently. "It is about finding the seeds of order, even in the midst of profound chaos. May I?"

"Sure, at least I can see _what_ I am trying to do," Lyta shrugged. Tuvok took another rod and placed it carefully. Part of the chaotic heap of rods arranged itself into a harmonic pattern."

Lyta breathed in in amazement. "It's beautiful."

"_Kal-toh_ is not about beauty," Tuvok corrected gently. Lyta withstood the urge to roll her eyes again, but she _did_ exchange an overly tolerant look with the Betazoid.

"That might be, but it's still beautiful. Can I try again?"

Tuvok nodded. "Certainly. That is why we are playing the game."

Lyta tried again – and failed spectacularly. Then again. And a third time. And a fourth time. The _kal-toh_ collapsed into itself every single time. After the fourth approach Ensign Jurot excused herself and returned to her work. But Lyta was not about to give up just yet.

"The problem lies in your thinking," Tuvok commented. "Your thoughts, albeit remarkably disciplined for a human, are not properly organized. I do not think that it is your fault. Someone has obviously tampered with your mind, and that left behind traces that cannot be unmade."

"Just like the tampering with your chief pilot's mind has?" Lyta asked mildly. "It was you who put up those shields in his mind, wasn't it?"

The Vulcan nodded. "What had been done to him was inexcusable. I admit that I do find Lieutenant Paris a most… irritating individual, but using a sentient being as an involuntary data carrier and causing him great mental pain in the process that could have resulted in permanent brain damage and in a rather painful death was highly unethical."

"In other words, you felt sorry for him and wanted to give him some protection for the future," Lyta supplied. One arched eyebrow was lifted again.

"Vulcans do not 'feel sorry', Ms. Alexander. What I did was the only logical course of action."

"Of course," Lyta nodded amiably and placed the last rod. The _kal-toh_… twinkled somehow and rearranged itself into a beautifully harmonious structure. "Was this the desired effect?"

Tuvok seemed just a little shaken. "How did you do that? None of your previous moves pointed towards this result…"

Lyta mimicked the thing with the eyebrow flawlessly. "Call it a hunch, Commander," she replied with a wicked smile.

* * *

On the other end of the Zocalo, in one of the more elegant restaurants, Chakotay was having a good time. At first he hadn't been comfortable with the idea of something that was dangerously close to a blind date, but he had to admit that Sam Wildman had been right. Dr. Lillian Hobbs was funny, witty, intelligent, dedicated to her job and had the most pleasantly warm, friendly manners. Beyond that, the doctor reminded him of the women of his own tribe. She had olive skin, thick dark hair, a beautiful smile and the loveliest coffee-brown eyes he had seen since his youth.

In other words, Chakotay was smitten – something that hadn't happened to him for a _very_ long time – and Sam Wildman watched him flirting with Dr. Hobbs with a fond smile. Having been a Maquis cell leader and now being first officer on a starship lost in unknown space was a lonely job, and Sam had always thought that their XO needed a nice woman in his life.

Of course, the disaster with Seska _had_ lessened Chakotay's willingness to take the risk of a new relationship considerably. Besides, based on their private conversations – and they had quite a few of those during the recent years, forming a true friendship, slowly but steadily – Sam had come to the conclusion that it wasn't some casual affair that Chakotay needed. In the heart of his hearts he was a family man – or would have been one, had he found the right woman. Somehow, Sam doubted that anyone on _Voyager_ would match that particular category.

But when she met Lillian Hobbs for the first time, Sam had the instinctive feeling that the doctor and Chakotay were made for each other. She _could_ be wrong, of course, but the matchmaker in her demanded that she would at least try to bring them together. Talking Chakotay into accompanying her hadn't been an easy thing, and Lillian seemed a little shocked at first, but now that the ice had been broken they were talking like old friends.

Lillian was holding Naomi on her lap, feeding the toddler small bits of… well, whatever she was eating and caressing the tiny bone spikes on the child's forehead. Naomi gurgled in delight, her chubby little hands safely curled around Chakotay's big index fingers for leverage – they were an extremely cute sight. Sam leaned back in her seat, relaxed, and enjoyed her meal. They might have been in a universe just as dangerous as their own, but at least for the moment life was good.

Unfortunately, their respective universes seemed to share the tendency to put an almost abrupt end to all good things. Lillian and Chakotay had barely begun to exchange childhood stories when the commander's comm badge beeped.

"Torres to Chakotay."

Chakotay touched his badge with a frown. It wasn't like B'Elanna to seek contact during shore leave – unless something went wrong. "Go ahead," he said.

"You better come over here, Chakotay," Torres' low voice urged, barely audible above the loud noise of some background argument. There has been a… a problem."

Chakotay rolled his eyes. "Let me guess: Paris got in trouble again."

"Well, yes, but this time it really wasn't his fault…" Torres tried to explain.

"B'Elanna," Chakotay interrupted, "I don't want to hear any excuses. Where are you?"

"In Captain Sheridan's office."

"Terrific. Just what I needed. Wait for me, I'm on my way. Chakotay out."

The first officer rose from his seat and gave the women an apologetic look. "Please excuse me. It seems Lieutenant Paris has something against me having a little peace. Ensign Wildman, would you mind to return without me today?"

"Of course not, Commander," when Chakotay reversed to official talk, there was no use trying to change his mind and Sam knew that.

"Dr. Hobbs, I enjoyed our lunch greatly," Chakotay added. "We should do this again – next time on _Voyager_?"

"Why not?" Lillian smiled. "Call me, and I certainly won't say no."

"Excellent. Until later then," and with that, Chakotay was already gone.

Sam looked at the doctor expectantly. Lillian Hobbs nodded with great dignity – then she broke into a wide grin.

"You were right," she said. "He _is_ gorgeous… and even entertaining. This will be so much fun. I really, really missed dating. I just wasn't aware of that. It has been too long."

* * *

To say that Captain Sheridan was annoyed would have been an understatement. On some days – and these days seemed to be more and more frequent lately – he had the distinct impression that the universe was going out of its way to make his life miserable. He had ceased to ask himself what else could go wrong for a long time. Station business was getting tougher with every passing day, the Shadows were closing up on the free worlds, the Vorlons were more uncooperative than ever, another attack from EarthGov's side was only a matter of time, and he had just received the message that Delenn had left Minbar and was on her way back to Babylon 5.

That in itself would have been wonderful news, actually. But with all known routes becoming increasingly dangerous, he wouldn't have an unconcerned moment until Delenn's actual arrival. He missed her and was worried sick for her safety.

And now Zack and his security detail found it necessary to herd into his office _five_ members of the _Voyager_-crew with various scratches and bruises, an agitated but seemingly unharmed casino owner from the Zocalo, an even more agitated Brakiri with a broken nose, two Drazi with serious bruises (which, considering their extremely tough, scaled skin, was not a small thing to begin with), a Pak'ma'ra with a head injury, three untrustworthy-looking and obviously severely beaten up humans, a male Centauri with a bleeding nose and Marcus, who sported a blue eye and a split lip.

For some mysterious reason, Vir Cotto, the most peaceful creature in the whole quadrant, had followed them of his own free will, in the company of a young Minbari male whom Sheridan had never seen before. But again, Vir had made an amazing number of Minbari friends since his short assignment on their homeworld.

"Captain," Zack shifted his weight uncomfortably from one leg onto the other, "I apologize for the intrusion. Under normal circumstances we won't bother you because of a bar brawl, but in this case…"

Sheridan understood completely. This could cause a diplomatic incident, and that was several levels above Zack's authority.

"That's all right, Zack," he said, suppressing a sigh. "Can you tell me what happened?"

Zack shook his head. "The bar owner alarmed us that a fight had broken out in the casino because some strangers were cheating at the pool table, but I don't know any of the details."

"We were _not_ cheating!" The blond man, whom Sheridan recognized as _Voyager_'s chief pilot, protested indignantly. "We played a perfectly honest game of pool. Well, several perfectly honest games. It's not our fault that this guy," and he looked at the Brakiri pointedly, "has no idea how to play and still found it necessary to challenge me."

Several people from the losing side jumped in at his word simultaneously, and in the ensuing chaos nobody aside from Rastenn noticed the warrior woman from _Voyager_ tapping that golden broche on her leather west – apparently some sort of communications device – and speaking to someone in a low voice. Barely a minute later the door opened again, and a big, bronze-skinned human with short-cropped, greying hair and an intricate design tattooed onto his left temple broke a way for himself through the agitated crowd.

The _Voyager_ crew snapped to attention at once, and even their adversaries became suddenly quiet as the big man moved through their rows with predatory grace. He radiated an aura of danger, and nobody wanted to provoke him.

"Paris," he said in a deceivingly mild tone, "have I not warned you about getting in trouble?"

The blond pilot gritted his teeth in frustration. "Chakotay, I haven't done anything wrong!"

"Really," the man called Chakotay smiled thinly. "Then would you kindly tell me why are you – all of you – here?"

"It wasn't my fault!" Paris replied stubbornly, but Rastenn recognized defeat in those blue eyes. It seemed that the pilot was used to being blamed for everything that went wrong. Well, maybe he _was_ a troublemaker – most humans were – but in this particular case his only wrongdoing had been that he had played with the Brakiri's hopes a little too long.

The argument broke out again, and while the three women and the dark-haired young man tried to defend the blond pilot, who refused to say anything else to his own defence, the losers were getting louder and more aggressive, trying to force Sheridan to take their side. The Anla'shok couldn't tell anything of importance, as he had arrived in the middle of the fight, and the Brakiri accused the _Voyager_ crew of having plotted the whole thing in advance and being all part of the crime.

The tattooed officer listened calmly, but his dark eyes burned with the sort of cold anger that could have put Alyt Neroon on a particularly bad day to shame. It didn't look well for the blond pilot. Even though he _was_ more or less innocent in the whole affair, he could not prove his innocence, as his comrades weren't accepted as witnesses.

Suddenly Vir, ignoring Rastenn who was tugging on his sleeve to silence him, raised his voice above the chaos. "Excuse me… Captain Sheridan, if I may…"

"Be quiet!" Rastenn hissed; the last thing he wanted was to catch Starkiller's attention. He had only come with Vir to keep the foolish Centauri out of harm's way. "This is not your business."

"Yes, it is!' Vir replied angrily. "This is about right and wrong, and small as this case might be, at least I have a chance to do something right." He shook off Rastenn's hand and stepped forward. "Captain Sheridan, I have watched the game and can affirm what truly happened. I can prove that this man," here he pointed at the blond pilot with a trembling finger, "had done nothing wrong. He played according to the rules of the game."

"What can a Centauri know about a human game?" The Brakiri growled – which was a rather stupid argument, as he wasn't human, either. Vir raised his chin defiantly.

"I work for Ambassador Mollari," he declared. "That makes me expert on whatever game is played on this station."

Sheridan grinned involuntarily, as there was a great deal of truth in Vir's words. Still, he was a little surprised that the young Centauri cared enough to come here and defend a human he had never met before. He even dragged his Minbari friend along.

"Can you verify this, too?" Sheridan asked the unknown Minbari. For some reason this young man awakened his suspicion.

"I am afraid I cannot," Rastenn answered evasively, cursing his bad look. "I do not know this human game." He spoke with a considerable Working Caste accent, just in case, though he doubted that Starkiller would be able to tell the difference.

"But I do know it," Vir said, "and I know that the human played a fair game. It is not his fault that you," here he looked at the losers accusingly, "started betting against him. It was you who raised the stakes, not him. And when you lost, you tried to take his money by force."

"What money?" the tattooed human asked quietly. "We don't have any currency that would be accepted here."

"The percentage that he received from the winners," Vir explained patiently. "It's a custom here, in certain circles, to bet for the winner in various games and share the profit with the player. Your pilot received the usual twenty per cent, no more and no less. These people only attacked him because he is a stranger on the station. They would never attack one from their own circle in a similar case."

"That is true," Sheridan nodded, looking at the tattooed officer. "Well, Commander, the case seems clear. I have no reason to doubt Vir's sincerity, which means that your officers here are without blame. As for the others," he looked at the losers threateningly, "I'm sure Mr. Garibaldi would love to keep an eye on them. Zack, inform him; and get them out of my office. I have more pressing issues to solve."

Zack Allen and the security detail escorted the losers out – not very gently. Vir practically collapsed in relief. Standing up for the right case was a tiring business. He flinched in surprise when the blond pilot turned to him and extended his hand.

"Thank you," Paris said. "It's a rare thing that someone would come to my defence. I appreciate that."

Vir shrugged but shook the proffered hand nevertheless. "It was the truth. And in these days one should cherish the chance to tell the truth. It's rare enough as it is."

For some reason, the humans found this amusing. Vir didn't understood why. He _was_ telling the sad truth, couldn't they see it? But all coherent thought abandoned him when the two identically (and frighteningly) beautiful women took his arms from both sides.

"Come, join us, sweetheart," one of them said. "Now, that Tom has won us some money, we can go shopping. I'm sure you'll be able to show us the best shops, won't you?"

"I… I..." poor Vir was terminally embarrassed, but the other woman kissed him on the cheek and gave him a radiant smile.

"Of course he will," she purred. "Tom, where is our money? We did help you to put up the show, after all, now share!"

The blond pilot laughed and divided his winnings in five equal parts. "Here you are, ladies… Harry. Let's have fun!"

They left, without taking a look back, obviously a little upset with their commanding officer, and swept Vir away. Sheridan, walking the commander to the door, shook his head in amusement. "Poor Vir. He was very brave. But I wonder how he is going to survive this adventure."

"In the clutches of the Delaney sisters?" the other raised a tattooed eyebrow. "That poor thing doesn't have a chance."

Left alone in Sheridan's office for an unguarded moment, Rastenn decided to take a great risk. He practically jumped to the comm unit, rammed one of the recording crystals always in his pocket into the slot and downloaded the most recent messages. Then he left in a great hurry, before Starkiller would return and catch him red-handed.

TBC


	9. Part 09

**STILL NOT IN KANSAS**

**by Soledad**

**Author's notes:** For disclaimer, rating, etc., see Part One.

I apologize by my regular readers for the little confusion I caused by rearranging the former chapters. As you can see, I've deleted the long intro parts and united the formerly two-parters to one chapter (5 and 6). So, this is definitely Part 09, and you might want to go back and check out Part 08, as it probably didn't show up on the Author Alert.

Some of the dialogue is directly lifted from the episode "Grey 17 is Missing", with small alterations.

* * *

**PART NINE**

"Commander," Sheridan said as they strolled along the corridor, aiming for the Zocalo, "may I ask you a personal question?"

Chakotay, now considerably more relaxed than just a minute ago in the captain's office, nodded. "Sure, go on."

"While we questioned your people," Sheridan tried to find the right words that wouldn't offend the other man, "did you really doubt that they were telling the truth? They seemed sincere enough to me, even without Vir's testimony."

"They were," Chakotay said. "Actually, I don't think that even Paris would lie to me. He can be infuriating as hell, but all in all, he is not a liar. And while the Delaney sisters _might_ have covered him in small issues, they won't do so in something really serious. As for the other two; B'Elanna and I had fought together long before we joined _Voyager_; I trust her with my life. And Harry couldn't lie to a senior officer if his life depended on it."

"Then why…?" Sheridan didn't really know how to ask, but Chakotay understood nevertheless.

"This is a question of credibility, Captain," he explained with a grim smile. "We are strangers here and have to make a convincing first impression. Regardless of the fact that I believed my people, it was their word against that of the locals. We _needed_ an independent witness to prove that we are willing to respect the local law."

"I'm not sure that I agree with you, Commander," Sheridan frowned. "And I had the distinct feeling that your people aren't happy with you at the moment."

"I know," Chakotay shrugged. "I fully expect B'Elanna threatening me to rip out my heart and eat it raw when I do something like this again. Harry will be hurt for a while, the poor kid, and Paris will pull out his 'son of the Admiral' persona and behave like an arrogant bastard for days. But those are the burdens of command. They will get over it."

Sheridan shook his head, not entirely convinced. "I still think that you are too hard on Mr. Paris."

"I probably am," Chakotay admitted thoughtfully. "I'm trying not to, but it's not easy."

"The two of you seem to have quite a story together," Sheridan said.

"And a rather colourful one at that," Chakotay agreed, grinning. "For starters, he once saved my life, at the risk of his own, while I was treating him like shit."

"And that irritates the hell out of you, doesn't it?" Sheridan asked.

"Of course it does. Try to owe your life to someone who grates on your nerves all the time," Chakotay shrugged again. "The man is full of contradictions. Every time when I think I've finally figured out what makes him tick, he pulls a stunt that turns everything upside down again. It _is_ irritating. I don't like contradictions."

"Is he really the son of an admiral?"

"He is. And that is part of the problem. But that's a long story."

"I'd like to hear it one day," Sheridan stopped in the middle of the corridor and looked at his wrist chrono, "but not right now, I'm afraid. I have to go. Ivanova's shift is almost over, and I promised to relieve her in time. She has an invitation from your captain and doesn't want to be late."

Chakotay nodded in understanding and lengthened his stride to catch up with his people, while Sheridan hurried to the War Room to have a private word with Ivanova before taking over command duties.

"So, how is the recruiting going?" he asked. Ivanova shrugged.

"Slowly. We are still going through the files conducting interview," she waved with the papers held in her hands. "I hate how we are forced to do these things."

"Oh, I agree," Sheridan sighed, "but I don't see any other way to do it. We'll need as many telepaths as we can get if we're going to take out the Shadows."

Ivanova made a sour face. "Unfortunately, at the time we start talking about _that_ part of the job, most of them start quitting instantly."

Sheridan thought about that for a moment. "There is another possibility. Franklin was running an underground railroad for telepaths escaping Psi Corps a while back. HE might be able to help us track down some of those people."

Ivanova looked at him skeptically. "Knowing Stephen he probably wiped his files in order to keep anyone from misusing them. But it's worth a try. He's still on that… walkabout thing, so finding him could be tough; but doable. It's not like anyone can hide out here for very long."

Sheridan grinned in agreement. "Good. And when you're at it anyway – what about the telepaths the _Voyager_ people have among them? Do you think we could persuade them to helps us out while they are here?"

Ivanova shrugged. "That's hard to tell. But since I'm due to visit Captain Janeway anyway, I guess I can ask."

* * *

In the meeting place of their clan in Down Below Neroon, Rastenn and Nidell watched Sheridan's stolen messages with grim determination.

"So, she is about to return," Neroon commented when the last one was over. Contrary to their expectations, all the previous ones had been rather uninteresting. "And the rumours were true; the leaders of the Anla'shok are truly planning to make her Entil'zha. I hoped they would be wrong. By Valen, I hoped. But they are true, and so our choices are limited."

"What are we supposed to do now?" Rastenn asked.

"You must return to the _Ingata_," Neroon said. "Starkiller has spotted you, and that is bad enough. But if Delenn returns, so will her aide; and Lennier knows who you are. You must _not_ be caught. You are the last of our line, at least for the moment. Should anything happen to me, you will have to take over my responsibilities. That might be harder than you believe."

"What could possibly happen to you?" Rastenn didn't like the sound of that. But Neroon only shook his head.

"I am not allowed to talk about that. Not yet. Not even to you. But I have _very_ specific instructions from Shai Alyt Shakiri, and I will carry them out, regardless of the consequences."

"That has a bad sound to it," Rastenn murmured. Neroon nodded.

"It _is_ a bad thing… a horrible thing. But when it comes to it, you should know that whatever I am going to do, I would do it for the good of Minbar, so that the balance and order can return to our people. You must trust me, Rastenn."

"I do trust you, uncle," Rastenn allowed himself to use the more familiar title. "But I am also worried."

Neroon smiled, allowing his fondness for the young warrior to show. "There is no need to worry. In fulfilling our duty lie destiny and the foundation of our future. Go now. I need to know that you are safe, so that I can focus on that which has to be done."

* * *

Susan Ivanova tried not to look overly impressed while a blue-skinned, bald female alien (at least she _thought_ it was a female) navigated her along _Voyager_'s corridors towards the turbolift. But it was a hard thing to do. The ship was practical, shiny, beautiful and almost irritatingly clean – something she always wanted her quarters on Babylon 5 to be but never managed quite to the level of her satisfaction. And the bridge certainly rivaled that of the _White Star_.

She wished she had more time to walk around and take a closer look at all the bridge stations and viewscreens, but the blue-skinned ensign was already pushing the buzzer on the Captain's ready room.

"Enter," a voice answered from within, and the ensign stepped aside, gesturing Susan to go first.

"Commander Ivanova, Captain," she then said crisply. Janeway nodded and rose from behind her desk.

"Thank you, Ensign Golwat. You can return to your regular duties now. I'll look after the commander from here."

"Aye, Captain," the alien called Golwat turned on her heels and left. Susan looked after her curiously.

"Which race does she belong to? Assuming she _is_ a she, of course."

"She's a Bolian," Janeway smiled, "and she is most definitely female. Sadly, we only have two of her people aboard _Voyager_; not a promising situation for a species that usually prefers clan marriages. The majority of our crew is human; Bajorans are the second largest group."

"Bajorans… they are the ones with the noses like accordions, right?" Susan asked, shaking hands with the captain. Janeway laughed.

"I se you've done your homework. Have a seat, Commander. Would you like a cup of coffee?"

"Coffee?" Susan knew that her eyes were bulging but she couldn't help it. "You mean actual, real, honest-to-Earth coffee? One that even _tastes_ like coffee?"

"Well, opinions about its reality are still rather divided, but it's close enough," Janeway grinned at her fellow coffee addict. "Coffee, black," she told the replicator; then she looked at Susan. "How do you like yours?"

"Usually, I take it black," Susan answered. "I need to stay awake for ungodly long hours, after all. But in this case… surprise me."

Janeway thought for a moment, sipping her own coffee, then her face brightened. "I have it. Computer, a short espresso, Segafredo style, with cream and sugar." She took the small, damping mug from the open slot and handed it to Susan. "You are in for a heavenly experience."

For a few minutes they chatted amiably, enjoying the blend of their choice. After the second round, however, Janeway put her cup aside and leaned forward a little, her narrowing eyes revealing that they had finally come to the actual reason of this meeting.

"So, Commander," she said. "Now that we have done the obligatory small talk, would you mind to tell me what's going on here? We have monitored the official broadcasting of EarthGov, but it reeks of propaganda; of the worst sort of it. I'd like to hear your side of the story. And I'd like to learn what's the matter with telepaths. Something seems odd about them in your universe. And I'd like to know who or what those Shadows are."

Susan stared at her incredulously. "Who told you about the Shadows?"

"No-one," replied Janeway calmly. "That's why I'm asking. Ensign Jurot has picked up some stray thoughts – or, to be more accurate, stray emotions – from Ms. Alexander concerning these… creatures, but it's not our way to mess around with other peoples' heads. I prefer getting my answers in the old-fashioned way."

"This Ensign Jurot… is she a telepath?" Susan asked uncomfortably. Janeway nodded.

"Of course. All Betazoids are. So are all Vulcans, for that matter. Or the Ocampa. And quite a few other species, but we don't have anyone of those aboard."

"What about human telepaths?" Susan dug further. Janeway shrugged.

"They are very rare – virtually nonexistent. I understand that it's different on your Earth?"

"It _has been_ different for the last two centuries or so," Susan replied thoughtfully. "Before that, it used to be the same."

"What happened?"

"We don't really know. Telepaths simply began to emerge from the normal human population some two hundred years ago, and their numbers have been slightly increasing ever since, thanks to the breeding program of the Psi Corps."

"Psi Corps; I've noticed that name several times. Why don't you begin with them and tell me the whole story in chronological order?"

"It's a long story," Susan warned. "How much time and coffee do you have at your disposal?"

Janeway smiled blandly. "As much as it takes."

* * *

After the seventh game of _kal-toh_, Tuvok unexpectedly turned the game off.

"Please come with me, Ms Alexander," he said. "It is time that we relocate to Holodeck One. Ensign Vorik should have finished preparations by now."

"What preparations?" Lyta asked, but she rose to follow him nevertheless.

"I asked him to create a holographic simulation of a Vulcan monastery," Tuvok replied. "Not one of the _kolinahr_-adepts, of course; that won't help you the understand our ways. But there are other, more common places, where young Vulcans are trained for years to learn how to use their abilities properly and to work on their discipline. I asked Ensign Vorik to recreate the monastery of T'Lan for us. He knows that place better than I do, as he spent there several years under the guidance of Master Selev."

Lyta had already heard of the holodeck, of course – everyone had, thank to Marcus' enthusiastic reports from the day before – but the _reality_ of it still shocked her a little. It seemed to her that she walked into another world when the big, greyish doors swooshed open and allowed them into a large, dimly lit room, apparently some sort of dining place, as there stood long, low tables in a U-form along three of the four walls that were seemingly made of rough, reddish-brown stone. Vulcans clad in long, flowing robes were kneeling at the tables – or, to be more accurate, sitting on their heels – without any sign of discomfort. In front of them simple earthenware bowls stood with some vegetable dish and mugs with what seemed to be herbal tea.

The fourth wall – the one facing the holodeck doors – was dominated by a large window, which offered a fantastic view of the Vulcan landscape: a hot and arid world, stripped bare from its natural resources by some planetwide natural disaster millennia ago. But Lyta understood that the true riches of this world were its inhabitants – their skills, their mental abilities, their dedication and discipline. She didn't know how, but she seemed to realize this, on an almost subconscious level.

Maybe Tuvok _was_ sharing with her his knowledge about his home. The communication happened on an impersonal level, without touching her own thoughts, without actual words or mental pictures. It made her feel excitement and fear at the same time, just beginning to understand what it meant to deal with a telepathic culture millennia old than her own.

Among the holographic characters now a young Vulcan rose and walked over to them, carrying robes similar to those the others were wearing on his arm.

"Lyta, Tuvok," he addressed them, using given names only as it was the Vulcan custom in similar situations, "Master Selev welcomes you at his table and asks you to share water with us."

"Tell Master Selev that we are most honoured, Vorik," Tuvok answered, and Lyta understood the significance of the offer that had just been made. Sharing _water_ on a desert world was the sincerest sign of acceptance that one could think of.

Vorik – obviously not a hologram but _Voyager_'s other resident Vulcan, even though Lyta would have been hard-pressed to spot any difference – bowed slightly. "Then put on the robes and follow me," he said.

* * *

"I think it's a great idea," Sheridan enthused, escorting a freshly arrived Delenn from the docking port towards the blue sector. He had transferred command briefly to Lt. Corwin, wanting to greet Delenn personally. "You are the natural choice to take over as head of the Rangers.

Delenn gave her a strange look, half fondness, half pity. Sheridan was a good man, but clearly, he had absolutely no understanding about the internal structure of Minbari society. In this area it had always been much easier to work with Sinclair. Unfortunately, that was no longer an option.

"A logical choice, perhaps," she replied patiently. I do not know how – or if – it would be fully accepted."

"Why not?" Sheridan asked, a little bewildered. "Who would object?"

"If I am lucky, perhaps no-one," Delenn answered thoughtfully. "But we can never know. I've chosen to hold the initiation ceremony here, if you do not mind, though."

Sheridan nodded. "Not a problem. But," he added, frowning, "this is a little… public, isn't it? Until now, the Rangers have operated only behind the scene."

"That role will change, soon enough," Delenn replied. "And before _that_ happens, I think you should know more of them personally."

"All right," Sheridan said. "I'll have Mr. Garibaldi arrange a security team, just…" as usual, his comm link interrupted him. He tapped it. "Sheridan. Go."

"Captain," came Lt. Corwin's voice through the link, "Commander Ivanova left a message for you. She said she's got the information you needed on the telepaths; it's been downloaded into your computer. Password-protected, for your eyes only."

"All right," Sheridan sighed, "I'll be right there." He turned back to Delenn, taking both her hands. "I'll have to catch up with you later. And again… congratulations."

"Thank you," Delenn replied with a smile that hadn't quite reached her eyes. She didn't want to break his good mood, but she didn't share his optimism, either. She knew all too well that things wouldn't run all that smoothly. Not with the problems back home.

* * *

Lennier looked around in the bar and soon found his Centauri friend on the usual place. He walked through the crowd and climbed onto the stool next to Vir.

"Leave me alone," Vir grumbled, without looking at him. "You've spoken your mind, you've told me what an idiot I am, so what else do you want to tell me to make my day even more enjoyable?"

"I do not know what you are talking about, Vir, but I most certainly haven't told you _anything_ since we left for Minbar," Lennier replied, understandably confused.

Vir finally turned to him – and blushed furiously. "Oh, it's you!" he exclaimed. "I'm very sorry, Lennier, I… I didn't mean to insult you, truly… I thought it was Rastenn…"

Alarm bells started ringing in Lennier's mind. He only knew _one_ Minbari with that name, as Minbari seldom re-used names anyway, and if Vir was talking about the same person, that would mean trouble.

"Who is this Rastenn?" he asked quietly. Vir waved dismissively with a fleshy hand.

"Oh, no-one too important. Just a young Minbari I've met a few days ago. I found that I'm missing Minbari company, you know, and he was friendly enough…"

"Your reaction to my presence didn't gave me the impression," Lennier remarked. Vir shrugged.

"We had a… difference of opinions. He… he is a very… opinionated person for someone so young and from the Worker Caste. But at least I had someone to talk to. He… he even seemed interested in what I told him, and that's _not_ something that happens to me very often," he added with a heroic effort of self-irony.

Lennier felt genuinely sorry for his friend. Poor Vir, such a good person, with a heart bigger than the whole of Babylon 5, and nobody seemed to recognize his true value. No wonder he grew to like Rastenn, who, in a manner, was friendly to him. Unfortunately, Lennier had a very good idea why Rastenn – if it truly was the Rastenn he knew – might have sought out Vir's company. And _that_ had nothing to do with friendship.

"Vir," the young Minbari said cautiously, "I would like to warn you. If this Rastenn is who I think he is, he might not mean well with you. I'm afraid he might be using you for getting information."

"About what?" Vir shrugged. "I won't tell you anything about Londo's business, and he knows that. And I'm not important enough for people to spy on me anyway."

"But you do have access to information about what is going on in the Council. Or between Captain Sheridan and these new people. You might know things that you do not consider important for yourself, but they could be very important for Rastenn… or those who have sent him."

Vir looked at him so crestfallen that Lennier's heart went out to him. The young Centauri had practically no friends, and apparently had hoped that he might have found one in Rastenn. Lennier hated to disappoint him, but he also felt responsible for him. This was a Minbari affair, and it wasn't right that Vir would be hurt in the process.

"Tell me," Vir asked quietly, "who is he really? For what you have just told me makes me doubt that he is a simple cook, working for a living in a Minbari restaurant."

"He most likely is not," Lennier agreed, sadly that he had to crush his friend's illusions. "I shall tell you everything I know about him. But first tell me about your conversations. They might give me some impression about what he really wanted."

* * *

Six hours later Dr. Lillian Hobbs finally finished her second shift on that day and slumped down into the armchair in her office – well, Franklin's office, actually. On paper, she was still nothing but the absent doctor's aide.

"I know it sounds horribly selfish, but I'm thankful to fate or whatever deity made you stuck on the station due to the quarantine," she said to her relief. "I don't know how I'd manage without you."

Dr. Maya Hernandez, a small, middle-aged woman with short, reddish-brown hair, smiled patiently. "I told you I don't mind, Lillian. I liked working on Babylon 5, and if not for Dr. Franklin's attitude, I'd probably still be working here."

"He does have a somewhat brusque manner at times," Dr. Hobbs admitted. But Dr. Hernandez shook her head.

"His manners weren't my problem. I've worked with Dr. Kyle for sixteen years, and he was a lot worse. That still wouldn't have kept me from joining his staff on Io… had he not had that 'unfortunate accident', right after President Santiago's death."

Dr. Hobbs nodded. "We heard of it. Captain Sheridan suspected that his 'accident' was part of President Clark's cleansing policy. Too bad. Dr. Kyle was great in his job, even though people said it was not easy to work for him."

"He demanded a lot from his staff," Dr. Hernandez agreed, "but he had a very strong sense for right and wrong. And he never mistook himself for God. Not even out of the best intentions."

"You are talking about the Children of Time, aren't you?" Dr. Hobbs asked quietly. Dr. Hernandez nodded, her eyes haunted.

"Among other things, yes. That was the hardest thing I've gone through with Franklin; and the reason why I eventually quit my job here and went back to Earth. The irony of it is that I actually _agreed_ with him. For all medical and human reasons and purposes, he was _right_."

"And still…?"

"And still, he had not right to handle the way he did. None of us has. As Commander Sinclair said, just because we don't share other people's beliefs, we are not allowed to act against their wishes. Even if we know – or at least we _think_ we know – that they are wrong. What we did was just as wrong… and I had part in it. I assisted Franklin, instead of alarming the Commander. I couldn't stay here any longer."

"Would you think the same way had the parents _not_ sacrificed the boy at the end?" asked Dr. Hobbs. Dr. Hernandez shrugged.

"I don't know, Lillian. I _hope_ so. But we're all just human beings, and thus we are utterly fallible." She sighed. "Go and have some rest. Who knows, maybe that handsome officer from the strange ship will call you to ask you out."

TBC


	10. Part 10

**STILL NOT IN KANSAS**

**by Soledad**

**Author's notes:** For disclaimer, rating, etc., see Part One.

I've been thinking of the original reason of male Minbari having such a dangerous-looking, sharply-pointed bonecrest, and came to the conclusion that way back, in primitive times, they could have used it in a fight, like deer and other similar creatures do with their antlers. The "glass chin" of the Minbari is my invention, too.

I decided to end this chapter at this particular point, as it otherwise would have grown much too long again. This way the story might spawn one more chapters than originally intended, but it would keep a clear structure.

Some of the dialogue is directly taken from the episode "Grey 17 Is Missing".

* * *

**PART TEN **

In one thing Chakotay had been right: Tom Paris _did_, indeed, pull out his "Admiral's son" persona and was irritable like hell. It didn't happen to him very often in these days, but right now he felt that Chakotay had treated him unfairly – and he had been beyond accepting unfair treatment without protest for quite some time. Truth be told, the other members of the previous day's shore leave team tended to agree with him, and so did other people.

"Chakotay did _what_?" Lt. Ayala couldn't believe his ears. Granted, he knew that on a bad day Chakotay could be downright mean, but that used to be a rare thing, and never without a good reason.

"He chewed me out in front of a bunch of complete strangers," Paris repeated angrily; they were sitting in the mess hall, ignoring whatever it was that Neelix had found appropriate to serve them. "You would think that after three years he would stop seeing the troublemaker in me," Tom continued, warming up to a really long, involved rant. "You would think that after all we had been through together, he'd have a little more… sophisticated opinion about me."

Harry laughed. "You would think that after three years people would stop seeing the naïve, inexperienced kid in me," he pointed out god-naturedly. "Well, they don't. Not even you do, and you are my closest friend. I guess, if we don't get home soon, people would still pat my shoulder encouragingly while I'm dying from old age."

"And women would still kiss you on the cheek, telling you how cute you are, instead of dating you," Paris grinned, feeling a little better. Harry rolled his eyes.

"Exactly. We've been living in this small community for so long, people have kinda become settled in their opinions."

"Chakotay was still way out of line," Megan Delaney said, frowning. "I don't know what's bothering him, but whatever it is, he didn't need to take it out on us."

"It was probably just some high-and-holy Starfleet directive about respecting the laws of the natives," Ken Dalby growled. Torres patted him on the back.

"Calm down, Ken. Chakotay usually knows what he does. Even though I still might kill him for embarrassing us in front of all those strangers."

"Or it's just that your timing was lousy," Samantha Wildman walked to their table with a plate of indefinable – and startlingly _trembling_ – green mass of food and sat down next to Torres. "I invest an awful lot of sweat in getting him a date, and you choose to get in trouble in the moment he actually begins to enjoy himself."

For a moment, there was shocked silence. Chakotay having a date was something most of them simply couldn't imagine. Despite the often rather explicit discussions about what might have happened between him and the captain back on New Earth. Despite his assumed love affair with Kellin, the elusive Rumaran tracer, whose existence nobody was able to believe completely, due to the neurolytic emitter the aliens used on them to make them forget the whole encounter. Chakotay just wasn't the person they could imagine going on a date.

It was B'Elanna who finally broke the stunned silence. "I don't believe Chakotay would be that petty," she said, shaking her head. Sam Wildman sighed, poking her food with a fork, not completely sure it wouldn't attack her.

"Not petty, B'Elanna. Frustrated. And your reaction showed clearly enough why. You all see him as some sort of rock in the storm; as if he wasn't just another human being. Granted, he probably has even less private life than the captain – that's something he obviously accepted, together with the job of the XO. But it doesn't mean that he likes it. Even the first officer of a starship can be lonely. Being here might be the best opportunity for him to relax a little and to have some company."

"And we managed to mess up the first date he has had in ages," B'Elanna murmured ruefully. "Whom did you set him up with?"

Sam grinned at her wickedly. "You don't really expect me to tell, do you?"

* * *

In the meantime, the big triumvirate of _Voyager_'s senior staff – namely Captain Janeway, Commander Chakotay and Lt. Cmdr. Tuvok – was discussing their situation in the captain's ready room. With the ship lying in drydock, they could afford to leave the bridge to Lt. Rollins for a while.

"I've been invited to visit the station and meet Ambassador Delenn," Janeway said. "According to what we have learned from the situation of this universe so far, the Minbari seem to play a pivotal role in the events… have done so for more than a decade and a half. So, I believe that establishing diplomatic relations – or semi-diplomatic ones, since we are only one ship and still intend to get back to where we came from – with the Minbari could be important for us."

"I quite agree," Tuvok nodded. "Beyond that, the Minbari seem like a fascinating species – and a rather ancient one. I would very much like to study their culture."

"You are welcome to join me, of course," Janeway smiled. "Unless, of course, Commander Chakotay wants to pull rank. He is our resident anthropologist, after all."

Chakotay shook his head, smiling back at her. "No, Captain, I'd prefer to stay here this time. I've got a depressingly huge pile of reports to catch up with – and preparations to make for a romantic dinner."

Janeway's eyes lit up like the warp core at full speed. She was a hopeless romantic, even though in these days her involvement was limited to watching other people's love life. "So, you gathered your courage and invited her? And she said yes?"

Stealing a glance at Tuvok's expressionless face that radiated disapproval nevertheless – not about the fact that the first officer _had_ a date but about the fact that they were discussing private matters in his presence – Chakotay grinned in delight.

"Yes and yes, Captain in both points. You know, it's silly at my age, but I haven't been so excited about something so small like a date for years."

"Considering our respective love lives in the Delta Quadrant, it is not surprising," Janeway commented wryly. "So, where are you going? The resort? Sandrine's? Your quarters?"

"Sandrine's for starters," Chakotay shrugged. "This is just a first date. I'm not _that_ desperate, you know."

Before they could continue this particular discussion, Tuvok rose stiffly from his seat. "I believe, from this point on my presence is not required," he said, trying to look less uncomfortable than he felt. "I will be ready whenever you comm me, Captain. Until then, I shall retire to my quarters and prepare myself for the meeting with Ambassador Delenn."

"Sure, Tuvok, whatever you want," Janeway nodded absent-mindedly, and when the Vulcan left, she leaned forward in her seat. "So, Chakotay. Tell me more about her."

* * *

Rastenn left his uncle and Nidell behind in the meeting place and turned his attention to the not entirely easy task of reaching his shuttle without being spotted – either by Delenn's people or by certain human groups that resided in Down Below. For although Sheridan _had_ managed to get rid most of the agents planted there by the EarthGov organization Nightwatch shortly after the attempted assassination of Delenn, there was no way to know how many of them were still lurking among the homeless, playing with their angry feelings, turning them against the station commander and his allies. Including the Minbari.

Especially against the Minbari. Despite the war being over for a decade and a half by now, there still were old wounds festering, old grudges lingering, on both sides. Rastenn was no fool. He knew that as the Warrior Caste was unable to forget and forgive, there had to be fractions among the humans as well who weren't. And the current Earth government nurtured that old hatred rather efficiently. Several attacks against the members of Rastenn's own clan on Babylon 5 in the recent months had proved _that_.

They hadn't informed Delenn about those attacks, of course. The Warrior Caste was used to solving its own problems. The attackers had been dealt with. But the Star Riders had also lost one of their own, and there was no way to know how many more of those human assassins were still hiding in the dark corners of Down Below.

Barely had he crossed two corridors, when Rastenn could feel that he was being followed. Their too-frequent meetings had apparently been noticed, and someone now wanted to learn more. His enemies were very skilled, he had to give them that, but Rastenn was a warrior, specifically trained for covert operations, his senses very sharp, even for a Minbari, and he also possessed a special sense of danger. Many warriors of his clan did; that was a useful ability, but nothing extraordinary.

He quickly recalled the layout of Down Below to decide where would be the best place to confront his enemies. There was no really good place for a fight against multiple attackers, all rooms on this lever being rather dark and cramped. He wouldn't have enough space to swing his denn'bok efficiently. Which meant he had to refer to his knife.

Rastenn didn't want to kill any of his attackers – not out of mercy, simply because that would have drawn too much attention at a time where he should have kept a low profile – but he didn't really have any other options. Given enough space to move around, he could have disabled them with his denn'bok and leave them behind, injured but alive. Yet crowded like he was down here, he had to make quick and dirty work of them.

They were catching up with him quickly, he could feel it rather than hear. Rastenn shed his cloak quickly, not wanting to give the attackers any advantage, threw it into the shadows and stepped back into a barely-lit corner himself, waiting with the practice of a born predator.

He didn't have to wait long. Barely a minute later, four humans of various ages and sizes but wearing similarly cheap and dirty clothes, appeared in the archway, almost noiselessly. Their ill-groomed appearance was misleading, however. They moved with the ease of well-trained soldiers and very obviously knew what they were doing. They were _hunters_.

Rastenn eyed them warily. A less experienced warrior would probably have picked the burly man at their rear, judging him to be the most dangerous adversary. But Rastenn knew better. The big man was just muscle. He could deal with muscle; Minbari were by default stronger than the average human, and Rastenn had been specially trained to fight them in hand-to-hand combat by Neroon himself. He had to meet a human yet who would be his even match in sheer strength.

No, the real danger came from the man in the middle of the group. This one was medium-built, wiry but well muscled, and most likely very fast. And he had eyes like a reptile: cold, unblinking, calculating. Yes, this one was the mind behind the action – the one Rastenn needed to take out first.

To that end, however, he had to remove at least one of the other humans who flanked the pack leader closely. The young Minbari took a deep breath and extended his denn'bok. He knew the humans would recognize the sound – they were old enough to have had fought in the Earth-Minbari war, and they were very obviously professionals, so they would know it – but he hoped to land at least one clean, effective blow.

He moved quickly and lightly, like a hunting _gok_, leaping out of the shadows and crashing one end of his pike down onto the skull of the nearest human with brutal force. The thug went out like a light, without even knowing what had hit him, but in the same moment Rastenn had to drop to the floor and roll out of the firing line of three PPGs, drawn and aimed by the humans at amazing speed.

He felt searing pain in his left shoulder – a stray shot _had_ hit him after all – and rolled over one more time, ignoring it and throwing the thin-bladed ceremonial knife with a barely visible switch of his wrist. It embedded itself into the pack leader's chest to the hilt. It was a sacrilege, of course, using the knife for such mundane purpose, but Rastenn couldn't be choosy in that moment.

The pack leader went down with a _thud_ but wasn't dead yet. In fact, he was still conscious enough to give his remaining two men some short, coded commands. This distracted Rastenn for a moment. Only for a moment, but it was enough for the burly man to grab him from behind and take him in a choking head-lock, pressing a thick arm against his sensitive throat, while the other one prepared himself for the fatal blow. Very few humans had ever learnt how vulnerable a Minbari's chin and throat could be – these here obviously belonged to that minority.

Rastenn's whole life hung now on a thin thread, so he had to act very quickly. He kicked the shin of his capturer with all his considerable strength, distracting the big man from his true goal. At the same time he snapped his head sideways with a slashing move, severing the major blood vessels of the man with the sharp spikes of his bonecrest simultaneously.

The grip on his throat loosened, and Rastenn threw himself forward, tossing his capturer against the only human still on his feet. At this moment he could have simply escaped, but he was too mad now to let his attackers get away. Besides, he wanted his ceremonial knife back.

Two of the men were stirring already – they must have very hard skulls; not hard enough to enable them to do any real harm, but Rastenn was not taking any chances. Reaching for the denn'bok that he had dropped in the melee, he whirled around like a vengeful spirit, dealing bone-crushing bows all around himself. After the second pirouette, all four men were lying motionlessly again, bleeding all over the place, some of them most likely dead. Rastenn panted heavily, trying to keep the battle madness at bay.

For a moment, he stood in the middle of his own private battlefield, thinking of various ways to escape from the station. First of all, he needed to clean himself. His bonecrest and his hands were covered with blood, and there were splatters on his clothes, too. There was no way he could get to the docking bay unnoticed. Not in this shape.

Obviously, he couldn't turn to any other Minbari for help – it would discredit his whole Clan, and Delenn's people wouldn't be eager to assist him. There was only one way out. Through the hidden maintenance tunnels, he could get to the diplomatic section. One of those tunnels just happened to end right next to Vir Cotto's quarters.

Rastenn retrieved his knife from the dead body of his enemy, covered his bloodied head and clothes with the hooded cloak and moved on.

* * *

At 1400, station time, Captain Janeway and Tuvok left _Voyager_ to meet Lennier, who was supposed to escort them to Delenn's quarters. The two officers wore their dress uniforms, as this was a first contact situation with the official representative of a major alien race. Kes, however, who accompanied them at Delenn's request, wore her usual clothes –not as short and child-like ones as in her first years on _Voyager_, as she was officially an adult now, but simple and comfortable ones that still made her look like the Flower Fairy. Especially since she'd had decided to have a haircut right before they ended up in this universe, and the short hair made her uniqely-shaped ears very visible again.

Lennier was already waiting for them in Bay 13 and greeted the two officers with a ceremonial bow, pressing his thumbs together in the process. He seemed a little unsure how he should greet Kes – a civilian who looked like a little girl but was said to have defeated a _Vorlon_ – so he simply blushed and murmured something unintelligible. Although he had grown out of his initial shyness in the recent years, new situations and unknown factors still tended to confuse him a little.

Done with the official greetings, Lennier led them to the core shuttle, and they took a ride to the diplomatic sector. Kes enjoyed it very much, saying that the station reminded her of the subterranean city of her own people, and watched the gardens through the shuttle windows in delight.

Reaching their destination, they left the shuttle and Lennier gestured them to enter the corridor that led to the quarters of the Minbari diplomatic staff – that included Delenn's quarters, Lennier's own, and a few of their co-workers. They were just about to step out into the main corridor when Lennier suddenly stopped and gestured to them to be quiet. They made a halt and listened to the voices coming from before them.

Not far from their position, two Minbari were arguing, according to the universal translator that always identified the language spoken before starting to translate. The highly sophisticated machine only needed a few sentences to click in, so the Starfleet officers and Kes could get almost the whole confrontation.

"A brilliant strategy, Delenn," a deep voice was saying, dripping with sarcasm. "I've not thought you capable of such ambition, but clearly, I was mistaken."

"What are you talking about?" another voice, that of the woman, asked in obvious confusion.

"The Anla'shok are commissioned after a thousand years in silence," the voice of the man replied grimly. "The Religious Caste begins constructing new warships, without the knowledge _or_ consent of the Warrior Caste…"

Slowly, absolutely noiselessly, Tuvok made a few steps forward. Just a few, so that he could peer around the bulkhead that shielded him from sight. He saw the tall, forbidding figure of a black-clad Minbari male, whom his analytical mind recognized from visual material that he had studied earlier, staring down at a slender woman – according to the vids shown to them, she had to be Ambassador Delenn.

"You chose not to act," the woman said, clearly angry now. "_Someone_ had to."

"Perhaps," the male Minbari bowed his head in mock respect. "But that is why we let you have them in the beginning. Even allowed Sinclair to train them. Even though it meant diluting the purity by allowing humans alongside out own people."

Tuvok shook his head mutely. He of all people knew all too well how alluring – and how very wrong – this attitude was towards humans. There had been a time when he even shared it. But he had belonged to a minority, even then, and had he allowed himself to have such illogical emotions, he'd have been saddened by finding such ignorance by another supposedly enlightened culture.

"We have been quite tolerant to your activities," the black-clad Minbari continued with an arrogance that spoke of sufficient power and authority on his side. But now that their training is complete, they require new leadership. By right of tradition, the Warrior Caste should be given command of the Anla'shok." The dark eyes of the warrior grew cold like ice. "That was the rule, set down by Valen. Three Castes: Worker, Religious, Warrior. They build. You pray. _We_ fight."

In the neutral light of logic this seemed a sensible arrangement to Tuvok. But he had the feeling that there were more things involved that he didn't know yet, and the next words of the ambassador affirmed that.

"_You_ violated that rule when the Warrior Caste became dominant in the Grey Council," she riposted, just as icily.

The warrior gave her a quirky little smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. It was not a pleasant sight. "But the Grey Council does no longer exist," he said softly. "You dispended it. So, what do we have now, Delenn? You have undergone a transformation, promised by Valen, broken the Council and created a vacuum of power. And now, as an eminent leader of the Religious Caste, you plan to take over a military force and fill that vacuum yourself."

The accusation sounded serious. Both Janeway and Tuvok looked at Lennier questioningly, but the young priest only shook his head in horror. It seemed that the accusation was false – or, at least, Lennier didn't believe it.

"I have no desire to rule our people, " Delenn said, her voice suddenly tired.

The warrior glanced at her in an oddly sympathetic manner. "I wish I could believe you, Delenn – but I don't. A religious zealot, propelled by prophecy into military and political power?" he barked a short, unpleasant laugh. "Always a bad idea. Out of respect, I will give you the opportunity to walk away from the path that you have taken. Refuse the position of Entil'zha and turn control of the Anla'shok over to the Warrior Caste – where it belongs."

In Tuvok's opinion, that would have been a logical choice to avoid severe confrontation among the Minbari. But Ambassador Delenn was apparently just as stubborn as Captain Janeway could be on one of her worse days.

"Or…?" she asked coldly. The warrior's face hardened even more.

"I am sworn to stop you, Delenn," he replied with a thinly veiled threat in his voice. "By any and all means necessary."

The threat was the last straw for Lennier's self-control. Forgetting the visitors he was meant to escort, forgetting all caution, he lunged forth to protect his mentor.

"Delenn!" he cried out anxiously.

The ambassador whirled around, forgetting her adversary for a moment. "Lennier, what are you doing here? Have I not given you orders to…?"

"The guests are here," Lennier interrupted her. "And they are safe. But you…"

Delenn glanced back over her shoulder, but the warrior was already gone. Well, that was not surprising. They left him out of sight just long enough to withdraw, unnoticed.

"Lennier," she said patiently, "we will _not_ discuss this here, in the open corridor. Let us all retire to my quarters and have a civilized conversation. That is, if you do not mind, Captain," she added, looking at Janeway questioningly.

"Of course not," the captain of _Voyager_ replied. "In fact, I'm quite eager to learn what is behind all this. And I'm sure Mr. Tuvok here would admit a certain… scientific curiosity as well."

"Then it shall be done," Delenn bowed and gestured her with a smile to follow.

TBC


	11. Part 11

**STILL NOT IN KANSAS**

**by Soledad**

**Author's notes:** For disclaimer, rating, etc., see Part One.

Apologies to the defenders of the Erogenous Minbari Bonecrest theory – since I've made the crest a weapon, it wouldn't do any good if it were sensitive to the touch.

Some of the dialogue, as before, is directly taken from the episode "Grey 17 Is Missing".

* * *

**PART 11 **

After a long and rather unnerving conference with Londo, Vir finally returned to his quarters. Things did _not_ look promising for Ambassador Mollari; it seemed that the fraction represented by Lord Refa was gaining strength and Londo's supporters were slowly but steadily pushed into the background. The only thing that could have helped was some spectacular progress with these strange new humans, but so far they hadn't even managed to establish contact.

Vir had called _Voyager_ several times on Londo's behalf. Every time, his calls were answered by the enigmatic First Officer with the name of Chakotay. The big man had listened to him patiently, even showed some sympathy for his stress, but the answer was always the same: Captain Janeway was currently busy, but would contact Ambassador Mollari as soon as she was available.

Londo had gone ballistic every time, of course. Too much depended on his small chance of success to take those repeated rejections kindly. The fact that the Minbari had already managed to organize a meeting between Ambassador Delenn and Captain Janeway – even though an informal one – only made Londo even more mad. He ranted for an hour or so, and Vir began to grow tired of the whole thing. He had his own problems to think of, right now. And he missed the peaceful life on Minbar. Even though he had taken great risks to secretly save all those Narns, life on the Embassy was safer. And definitely more pleasant.

He sighed and opened his door with the key card. It was dark in there, but he didn't feel like calling for lights. All he wanted was to sit a while in the darkness and think. He put down his jacket and headed for his kitchenette to make some tea. He grew fond of drinking tea during his time on Minbar, and the barely glooming direction lights over there were enough for him to perform such an easy task.

That was when he felt the presence of another person in his living room.

* * *

Janeway found Delenn's quarters simple but elegant. They _did_ look a little dark – all personal quarters on Babylon 5 did, for some strange reason – but the white-screened lamps, attached to the sidewalls in some unknown pattern, balanced it out nicely, and the semi-transparent crystal screens before some of the dull metal walls gave the place an ethereal and otherworldly air. So did the crystal spiral of small chimes hanging above the table.

They were seated on cushions around the table in Minbari fashion, which didn't seem to bother the visitors at all, so that Lennier could begin serving the traditional Minbari meal. Unlike the first dinner Sheridan had been invited to a year ago, this didn't contain any ritually prepared food. Those would have demanded Lennier to perform a two-day cooking ritual, including fasting. They hadn't had the time for that, but since this was an informal lunch, there was no need for any particular ceremonies to be perform.

The guests tasted the food, and while it drove tears into Janeway's eyes, Tuvok's entire reaction was a raised eyebrow, as always.

"It is rather… spicy," he commented, while Kes, still very fond of spices after the bland food the Caretaker had provided her people, ate with obvious delight. Besides, after surviving Neelix' flamboyant cooking for three years, _Voyager_'s crew had become rather hardened when it came to spicy food.

"Minbari cuisine is considered bland by many other races," Delenn said, smiling, "but that is only true for _flarn_ and other ritual dishes. As you can see for yourself, high cuisine can be quite… colourful."

"Indeed," Tuvok politely suppressed a cough; Vulcans were stoically resistant, but he felt as if his entire mouth was in fire. "I am certain that Mr. Neelix would be excited by the experience."

* * *

"Who is there?" Vir asked quietly, too frightened to call for lights. The fact that someone was able to break into his quarters was most upsetting. It either meant that he had been spied upon for quite some time, or that that someone was capable of overriding the most sophisticated security codes, provided for diplomatic personnel only. He couldn't quite decide which was the more disturbing thought.

"There is no need to fear," the familiar voice of Rastenn answered. "It's only me."

"Which is bad enough, I am told," Vir riposted. "Would you care to tell me how you got into my quarters – and, more importantly, why?"

"I know my way around computers," Rastenn said. "And I came here because I need your help."

"_My_ help. After having lied to me and used me for your own purposes, whatever those might be, you want _my_ help," for some reason, Vir found the thought hysterically funny. Maybe his nerves were finally breaking down.

Rastenn sighed. "I see you had time to talk to Lennier," was all he answered.

"Is it true?" Vir asked, suddenly very eager to know. "Are you really Warrior Caste and here to spy on your uncle's behalf?"

"More or less," Rastenn replied. "I do have roots in the Worker Caste as well – my father is Worker Caste. I chose to be a warrior. And yes, I am here to gather intelligence for my uncle. There is no shame in that."

"No," Vir agreed; politics were politics. "But it _is_ a shameful thing to pretend friendship and to lie to the one who accepts it because he is offered friendship too rarely to reject."

Rastenn sighed again. "I know," he admitted softly. "And I am sorry, Vir. I never wanted to lie to you, but I was not allowed to tell the truth. Though, in fact, I have begun to enjoy our conversations. I would have liked to become your friend."

"I wish I could believe you," Vir answered sadly. "But I'm afraid I cannot."

"That is understandable," Rastenn answered. "I do not expect you to trust me again, even though I regret that things have taken such an unfortunate turn. But I still need your help, because on this entire station you are the only one I can ask for help."

Vir hesitated a little. Lennier's revelations had hurt badly – he, too, had begun to grow fond of Rastenn – but he could feel that the young Minbari was deadly serious, and most likely in bad trouble. And Vir Cotto was not the person to turn his back on someone who needed his help.

"Are you in trouble?" he asked tentatively.

Rastenn actually laughed at that – but without mirth. "Call for lights, and you will see," he replied, still chuckling.

* * *

"I would never believe that Neroon would actually threaten you, had I not heard it by my own ears!" Delenn and her guests had finished lunch and were now discussing the recent confrontation between her and the determined warrior – an event that made Lennier most visibly upset. "He is a member of the Grey Council!

"_Was_," Delenn emphasized with a sigh. "The Council is no more – he can do as he sees fit."

"Excuse me," Janeway raised a hand. "We've been given _some_ information about the Minbari caste system, but would you mind to tell me something about that Grey Council? From the way you keep mentioning it, I believe it is an institution of great importance."

In the next ten minutes, Delenn and Lennier gave their guests a crash course on the last thousand years of Minbari history – including the Grey Council's role in keeping the peace between the various clans and castes.

"This should come as no surprise," Delenn added, turning the conversation back to its original topic. "We knew the Warrior Caste was unhappy with our activities."

"_Unhappy_?" Lennier repeated, too upset to keep his voice low. "Delenn, he is planning to _kill_ you!"

"That is _one_ interpretation," Delenn replied, her jaw set stubbornly. Lennier rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"He said he would use any and all means necessary," he pointed out. "I respectfully suggest that he intends to go far beyond harsh language."

"Lennier is right," Kes said quietly. "I have only caught a glimpse of this… this warrior's emotions – his shielding is surprisingly good for a non-telepath – but I'm certain that he is willing to do anything to reach his goal."

Delenn shook her head. "Impossible. No Minbari has killed another for a thousand years."

"Yes," Lennier agreed. "But if the Grey Council is gone and the rules have changed – what else has changed?"

"He does have a point," Janeway warned Delenn. "You can't count on these rules anymore, no matter how well they have worked in the past. You should ask Captain Sheridan for protection."

"I quite agree," Lennier said, glad to have found some allies. "You should tell the captain about this, at the very least."

"No!" Delenn prompted. "This is an internal problem, Lennier, and if we can't handle it on our own, then we should not be here." Lennier tried to protest, but she silenced him with a stern look. "So. I want your world that you will not tell him about this. Or anyone else under his command."

"Delenn, I..." Lennier still wasn't fully convinced, but neither was Delenn in the mood for arguing.

"Your. Word," she repeated in a steely voice, and when Lennier finally broke and bowed obediently, she turned to her guests with a smile that could have charmed off a Klingon's favourite _mek'leth_ from his belt. "I must ask you, too, to handle this problem with he utmost discretion."

"Of course," Janeway nodded, even though she didn't agree. "It's not allowed us to interfere with the internal matters of other people. We can, however, offer our help, if requested. Mr. Tuvok's security team is very well-trained, and…"

"No," Delenn said, determined. "Thank you for the offer, but as I already said, this is something that we have to deal with among ourselves."

Janeway shrugged. "It's your choice, Ambassador. Although I still think you are making a mistake."

"Perhaps," Delenn replied. "But as you correctly said, it is my mistake to make. Now, Captain Sheridan will arrive shortly. I suggest we change the topic, so that we do not rouse his suspicions."

The others respected her wish. The conversation turned to matters of the Federation, for which Delenn showed great interest. Lennier, however, was worried and could not truly listen. His only concern was Delenn's safety now, and he had the glum feeling that he wouldn't be able to protect her from Neroon. Not long enough anyway. Not until her initiation was completed.

But there was little he could do. Well-trained as he might have been, at least according to the measures of the Religious Caste, he could never stop a fierce warrior like Neroon, twice his age and his strength. There were few people on Babylon 5 who could at least hope to delay Neroon long enough. And Delenn had forbidden telling anyone in Sheridan's chain of command.

_Then you will have to find someone outside the chain of command_, a gentle mental voice said.

Glancing up in mild shock, Lennier met the friendly blue eyes of Kes, who was looking at him encouragingly.

* * *

"Would you just sit still and let me clean this… this bone of yours?!" Vir was growing irritated. After Rastenn had told him about the attack in Down Below, he cleaned the wound on the Minbari's shoulder and allowed him to use his shower and the dry cleaner unit for his clothes. Now Rastenn was sitting in his small living room and Vir tried to remove the dried blood from the ridges of the Minbari's bonecrest.

It was delicate work, as some of the ridges were surprisingly deep and narrow, and Vir had tried several utensils until a wet hairbrush proved to be the right solution. But it took time, and patience wasn't Rastenn's major virtue. He was eager to get back to the _Alota_ before Sheridan learned about his identity and decided to hunt him down, just to protect Delenn.

"Rastenn, stop wriggling!" Vir said, exasperated. "I'll never finish at this rate; and I might hurt you when my hand slips."

"Hurt me, how?" Rastenn laughed. "Vir, it's a _bone_; a protective bone at that, and occasionally even a weapon. I don't have nerves in my bonecrest, nor any feelings in it."

"You mean it isn't… erm… sensitive to… erm… to certain kinds of… of stimulation?" Vir felt his face heating and had no doubts that he was coloured deep purple by now. But Rastenn understood what he meant nevertheless – and laughed so hard that he nearly fell from the chair.

"You must have seen too many porn vids made by humans," he said, finally calming down again. "No, it is not sensitive in _any_ way. Sure, we feel it to a certain degree, the same way you feel your teeth, but that is all. I hope you are not too disappointed."

"Of course not," Vir felt decidedly uncomfortable. "Could we… could we _not_ have this conversation, please?"

"I am sorry," Rastenn turned serious again. "It was not my intention to make fun of you. It is just… I have heard that theory once too often, I guess."

"All right," Vir sighed in defeat. "Let me finish this job here, and then we'll try to get you out of here unnoticed… if it's possible at all."

"You do not need to do anything complicated," Rastenn assured him. "Just walk with me through the diplomatic section. People are so used to see you with various Minbari, they will not suspect anything. All we need to do is to avoid running into Delenn or Lennier."

"That is rather unlikely," Vir said. "Ambassador Delenn is hosting Captain Janeway and two of her people right now. Lennier is most likely occupied with domestic duties."

He finished cleaning Rastenn's bonecrest. There still were a few places that he couldn't reach, not even with the brush, but these were too deep to draw any attention. The dry cleaner was done with the Minbari's clothes, too, and Rastenn quickly dressed again, hiding his face under the hood of his cloak.

"We can go," he said. "And one more thing: I, my family and my clan are in your debt now, Vir Cotto. This is a debt you are free to collect any time you want. I might have ruined my chances to gain your friendship, but I would never break my word, given to you."

* * *

Lillian Hobbs couldn't remember the last time she had worn a dress. Not a fancy one, not one of those sinfully expensive designer models – she never had the money for something like that, and even if she had, she'd never waste her credits that way – just a simple, average, down-to-earth dress in which she could feel like a woman again. Sometimes she felt as if she hadn't worn anything but medical gowns for years. Which, actually, was depressingly close to the truth.

But this evening was different. Not only did she have her first real date for ages, but she was also about to get introduced to the wonders of _Voyager_ – and she was looking forward to it very much. Sam Wildman's stories and Marcus' enthusing about the holodeck had made her very curious. Besides, being concerned about something as mundane as what to wear for a date, was more than welcome after all that stress in the recent weeks.

She opened the door of her closet and critically surveyed the dresses hanging in there – all four of them. She rejected the idea of wearing black at once… it would have been overkill for a first date. The deep burgundy red evening dress that she had bought years ago for her graduation wouldn't do, either. It was pretty, but too provocative. That left her with two choices, white or pale yellow. She chose the yellow one. It harmonized nicely with her own dark complexion and had a comfortably loose cut.

"The time is fourteen-twenty-five," the computer warned her.

Lillian swore in French, as always when in stress. For some reason, she found that comforting. Maybe because the language reminded her of her grandparents who had raised her. But she really had to hurry up now. One last glance into the mirror – everything looked just like it should be – and she stormed out of her quarters, hoping that her date won't be too mad for her being late.

Chakotay, wearing a casual, light-coloured suit that made him look even more dashing, had come to meet her at the entrance of the docking bay. To her relief, he didn't seem mad at all.

"I'm sorry," Lillian apologized, rather out of breath. "I didn't mean to be late. It's a horrible thing with me – I'm punctual like a computer at work but don't seem to be able on time privately. Ever."

"That's all right," Chakotay gave her one of those dimpled smiles that should have been registered as deadly weapons. "You are not _that_ late; I've only arrived five minutes ago. Besides, there is no need to hurry. The holodeck won't go away – I have a reservation for three hours."

"Three hours?" Lillian repeated in surprise. "Isn't that a little long for a late lunch?"

"It depends," Chakotay replied, grinning. "You'll see that time seems to go very quickly on the holodeck. Shall we?"

He offered his arm in a gallant manner and Lillian accepted it, laughing. They walked back towards _Voyager_, neither of them noticing the young – and at the moment slightly agitated – aide of the Centauri ambassador walking by in the company of a Minbari who was wearing the plain, hooded cloak of the Worker Caste, heading to the docking ports of the merchant vessels.

And even if they had, they wouldn't have paid the two any attention.

TBC


	12. Part 12

**STILL NOT IN KANSAS**

**by Soledad**

**Author's notes:** For disclaimer, rating, etc., see Part One.

Some of the dialogue, as before, is directly taken from the episode "Grey 17 Is Missing". I've messed up the timeline of the actual episode a little, for which I'm truly sorry. But I needed more time and slightly different situations to insert the Trek characters.

Sorry it took me so long to update. Real Life has interfered a lot, and Chakotay was most uncooperative when it came to the romantic parts.

* * *

**PART TWELVE **

Security Chief Michael Garibaldi was not the sort of person to easily trust strangers. In fact, he had been called paranoid many times in his life – and not without a reason. The more surprising it was, even for himself – or _especially_ for himself – that he had taken such an instant liking to Gregor Ayala. He felt as if he had known the other man all his life.

There was something about the burly security officer of _Voyager_ that Garibaldi felt very soothing. While he was talkative and easily irritated, Ayala seemed like a quiet and unmovable rock in a storm. He came from a family that had been in law enforcement for three generations, while Ayala was a former outlaw, rebel and freedom fighter. And yet they had understood each other splendidly at first sight. It was a strange thing, but Garibaldi liked it.

"Now, _this_," he explained proudly, "is an antique Smith & Wesson .38 revolver. Used to belong to my grandmother, back when she worked for the Boston P.D."

Ayala eyed the relic in question with proper respect. He was _not_ the weapons fanatic many of his fellow security officers seemed to be, but even he found intriguing an item this old and still in such good shape.

"May I…?" he asked, and Garibaldi handed him the gun readily enough.

"Yea, sure, take a look. You don't see something like this every day."

Ayala examined the weapon, admiring the clean lines. "Oh, she's a beauty! Do they still use projectile weapons, back on Earth?"

Garibaldi shrugged. "Yeah. Not as much as the used to since EarthForce went all over to use PPGs, though. These things can't only burn through the flesh, they also can punch a hole through the walls and bulkheads."

"Not what you'd want on a space station," Ayala agreed. "Or on a starship."

"Back home they still use them for private security," Garibaldi added. "Or for target practice. That sort of thing."

"Makes sense," Ayala gave him back the weapon. "Why did you dig it out right now?"

"Oh, I don't know," Garibaldi replied with a helpless shrug. "Ever since we severed ties with Earth, I've felt a little… uprooted. But this baby," he caressed the gun almost reverently, "this is a firm part of my family's history."

"I understand," Ayala said after a while. "When the Federation signed that treaty with the Cardassians – the one that handed our colonies over to the enemy – I felt the same way. We all felt the same way."

Garibaldi nodded in understanding. "That was what drove you into the Maquis."

For a moment, Ayala was unsure how to explain his newfound friend that the Maquis wasn't just some organization one joined. That they _were_ the Maquis; all of them. But before he could have found the right words, the lean-faced man whom he had seen working with Garibaldi earlier stormed in, waving with some reports that he held in his hands.

"Sorry, chief…"

"Hey, Zack," Garibaldi answered absently, putting the gun away. Zack Allen started a new approach.

"Sorry for being late… I've been hold up in the Grey sector. I had a weird report…I don't know what to make of this one. They had some dead power relays last night – which means they had to check it out."

"Did they fix it?" Garibaldi interrupted.

Zack nodded, quite unsure about the whole thing. "Yes…"

"You're right," Garibaldi prompted. "That _is_ a weird thing."

But Zack apparently didn't feel like joking. "It's not only that," he continued, concerned. "The guy did the work – and disappeared."

Garibaldi rolled his eyes. "What do you mean 'disappeared'? This is a closed station. Where can you go?"

"Well, that's what they say anyway. They've found his gear, but no trace of the guy," Zac waited for a moment. "You want me to look into it?"

"No," Garibaldi stood with a long-suffering face. "I'll do it. I like mysteries. But," he added warningly, "I _hate_ Grey sector. I swear, there's always some damn thing going wrong. See you later."

"Sure, whatever," Zack shrugged and left.

Garibaldi turned to Ayala, "Are you coming? You can see a whole different part of Babylon 5. Besides, Grey sector is boring, and I could use some company."

* * *

**_Voyager_**

The holodeck doors opened on _Chez Sandrine_, and Lillian Hobbs felt as if she was stepping into another world. Into one with which she was pleasantly familiar, to tell the truth. After a holographic customer had tossed the glass doors outwards they were granted a glimpse of a large room, panelled in warm, golden-brown colours and dimly lit by beautiful, stained glass lamps. Artfully carved cabinets stood along the walls, filled with china and glasses, and there was a pool table right opposite the entrance, with some of the players, curiously, wearing twentieth-century clothes. There was even a fireplace on one side, with small tables and stuffed chairs around it.

"A French bistro!" she cried out in delight. Chakotay looked at him in surprise.

"You seem familiar with this sort of… establishment," he said, and Lillian nodded.

"I am. You see, after my parent's died, my maternal grandparents took me in. They were French and lived in Marseilles. I spent a lot of my younger years in places like this one."

"Marseilles?" Chakotay raised a tattooed eyebrow. "This tavern _is_ in Marseilles, you know. I mean, the original one. And that," he nodded discretely towards the petite blonde woman standing behind the bar, "is Sandrine. She owns the place. It's been in her family over 600 years. So theoretically, you should know this place, too."

Lillian shook her head, regretfully. "Our respective histories seem to divide in this area. I know the harbour of Marseilles like the back of my hand, but there never has been a bistro like this." She looked around, interested. "Which is a shame, actually. I think I'd have liked it."

"Well, as they say, 'no time like the present'," Chakotay escorted her to the bar and gave the proprietor one of his killer smiles. "_Bon soir_, Sandrine. May I introduce you to Dr. Lillian Hobbs?"

The blonde woman, who was wearing a long-sleeved purple dress with a rather… suggestive cleavage and a silver flower in her hair, smiled at them warmly.

"Oh, _enchanté_," she said, offering her hand to Chakotay, who kissed it. "We haven't seen you here for a long time, Commander. Can I get the two of you something to drink?"

Chakotay thought for a moment. "Would you be willing to break open a bottle of that '46 Saint Emilion you save behind the bar for Tom Paris?"

"_Bien sûr, mon ami_," Sandrine replied with a sultry smile and produced the bottle in question. "Only the best for you and your lady friend."

Chakotay smiled. "Since you've grown up in France, I don't think I need to ask if you like wine," he said to Lillian, accepting the bottle and the glasses from Sandrine and navigating his date to an empty table. "This is a very good vintage – too bad it's only synthehol."

"Only what?" Lillian made herself comfortable and eyed the wine with interest.

"A synthetic reproduction," Chakotay explained. "It gives you the taste of alcohol, without the intoxicating effects."

"And that's considered bad?" Lillian asked in surprise. Chakotay shrugged.

"Not as a rule, it isn't. But sometimes… well, there are times when a little intoxication is just part of the fun." He raised his glass and Lillian followed suit. "_Salute!_"

They clinked their glasses and drank. Lillian eyed the bottle again, this time appreciatively.

"Synthetic or not, this is a very good wine," she judged. Chakotay grinned.

"Lieutenant Paris has his faults, but his taste in wine is excellent. Would you care to dance before we have dinner?"

"Sure, why not?" Lillian rose again, accepting his hand and followed him to the dance floor. This promised to be a very pleasant evening.

* * *

**_Docking bay_**

Both of Vir's hearts throbbed in his throat, and he needed all his willpower not to freak out when they passed the _Voyager_ officers heading to the diplomatic section. Rastenn's unshakable calm was a source of strength, though; so he managed to look… well, only as nervous as he always did. Working for Londo Mollari was not healthy for one's nerves.

Fortunately for him, the human lady captain and her pointy-eared companions hadn't even consciously noticed them passing by. They reached the bay where the _Alota_ was docked without any incident, and Vir took in the sleek, elegant lines of the little ship admiringly.

"This is no simple trade shuttle, is it?" he asked quietly, and Rastenn shook his head.

"No, it is not. I wish I could tell you more, but…"

"There is no need," Vir interrupted hurriedly. "Since I know now who you really are, I can guess. And the less I know, the safer it is for me."

"That is true," Rastenn touched both his fists to his chest in the warriors' greeting. "My gratitude, Vir. May your gods protect you. I hope we will meet again, under more pleasant circumstances."

"So do I," Vir replied, half-relieved that this dangerous new friend, who turned out to be no friend after all, was finally leaving. Even though he would miss their conversations. Lennier _was_ a true friend, one whom he could trust, but Rastenn… well, Rastenn had been more fun.

"Good luck," he added and turned away, determined to go to the Zocalo and get drunk. Usually, he was not a heavy drinker, but he considered the current circumstances… unusual, to put it mildly.

Rastenn checked in with C&C and received permission to start from Lt. Corwin. He steered his shuttle out of the docking bay and felt great relief when he finally got out to open space. Granted, he was still within the reach of Babylon 5's defensive grid, but they had no reason to fire at a lonely Minbari shuttle... one registered as a participant of regular trade traffic.

He was about to initiate the jumpgate sequence, when suddenly the gate burst open, and a whole swarm of small ships came through. He recognized the configuration, of course – they were Anla'shok fighters, coming to Delenn's initiation ceremony, no doubt. Rastenn allowed himself a grim smile. The Anla'shok would be surprised by the outcome of that ceremony.

He activated the _Alota_'s engines and jumped through the gate before it could close again. The instruments picked up the _Ingata_'s beacon as soon as he was in hyperspace. He leaned back in his pilot's seat and adjusted his course, according to that beacon. The assignment was over. He was going home.

* * *

**_Grey Sector_**

Garibaldi and Ayala rode the elevator down to the Grey sector level where the technician was supposed to have disappeared and met Ms Jolie, the tech supervisor of the maintenance crews. She was a competent, no-nonsense woman in her early thirties, who even managed to look good in her blue uniform. Yeah, she was pretty in a feline way, with her cat-like green eyes and shoulder-length, blond hair, but that didn't explain why Ayala was staring at her with his mouth literally open.

But those were thoughts for another time, Garibaldi decided. Right now, he had a mystery to solve – an at least interesting change to the usual crime reports. Like the three guys found dead in Down Below. Which was a problem he would to return to, shortly. First, however, he wanted to deal with _this_ one.

"Is this the last place where you heard from him?" he asked. The blonde woman nodded.

"Yes, sir. He said he couldn't find anything wrong and all of a sudden, the power grid came back on, just like that. We waited for him to check back on, but he didn't," she shrugged empathically, "and after a few hours, we called security."

Garibaldi frowned, still refusing to believe in mysterious disappearances. Instead, he squatted down to where the cover of a maintenance tunnel was clearly outlined on the floor.

"Anybody checked _this_ out?"

The woman gave him a slightly annoyed look; she obviously didn't like when her competence was being questioned. "Yeah, we checked all the levels below, but… nada. The cover was back in place – apparently, he had finished whatever he was doing."

"Anybody saw anything?" Garibaldi pressed.

"This whole sector is mainly industrial stuff," the woman pointed out. Then she made a helpless gesture. "I'm telling you, it's like he just vanished into thin air."

"Thin air?" Garibaldi repeated, slipping into that mood Zack and Lou Welch called 'the Chief's rambling. "Why is it always thin air? Never fat air, chubby air, mostly-fit-could-stand-lose-a-few-pounds air?"

The woman looked as if she was ready to call the MedLabs at once. But she tried to remain as polite as possible when alone with a madman and an unknown person in a semi-secluded industrial area.

"I'm sorry, sir, but semantics aren't my department," she replied with exaggerated patience. "Have _you_ got any ideas?"

"Aside from a two-week vacation in the Mars Pleasure Dome?" Garibaldi snapped. "Not a one. "He pressed a button to call the elevator. "Are you sure you've checked out here?"

"Absolutely," the woman replied, her eyes decidedly unfriendly now. "We went through all twenty-nine Grey levels."

"You mean thirty," Garibaldi interrupted. "There's thirty levels in Grey sector."

"No," the woman replied patiently. "Twenty-nine."

Garibaldi gave her a bewildered look. "But I've seen the schematics, and…"

"They say thirty, I know," it was now the woman's turn to interrupt him. "It's a mistake in the blueprints. They've rushed to get this place finished, so nobody ever counted. Not that many people get down here to begin with, after all. Take my word for it; I went down every floor of this place and _counted_ it: twenty-nine. For sure."

The elevator arrived. She gave them a superior smile, stepped in and left, without waiting for them.

"That went well," Garibaldi commented sourly. "She is probably the most infuriating woman in the whole tech crew."

Ayala shrugged. "I found her cute," he told Garibaldi. "If you think _she_ is difficult, you should try working with Lieutenant Torres. On her first day in Engineering, she broke Lieutenant Carey's nose in the heat of a harmless argument."

Garibaldi winced, remembering Zack's report about the half-Klingon woman and how she had beaten up two Drazi single-handedly. "Ouch! At least Ivanova doesn't beat us up. Not that I know it, anyway. So," he added, grinning, "you found Ms Jolie cute? You'd have fooled me… the way you stared at her with open mouth."

"She reminded me of someone I used to know," Ayala shrugged. "Way back, before I became a Maquis."

"A significant someone?" Garibaldi inquired. But Ayala shook his head.

"No. A wealthy Bajoran woman who had married a collaborator twice her age for his money and even after the war, she tried to blackmail her late husband's agents who were hiding their identity. No, she definitely wasn't a nice person. But the physical remembrance is eerie."

"But you still find Ms Jolie cute," Garibaldi said, shaking his head.

"Yeah," Ayala said. "You think you could set me up for a date with her?"

Garibaldi stared at him in utter disbelief. "You can't be serious! That woman is like a cold fish!"

"It's all a question of the right approach," Ayala replied. "I don't intend spending our time here on _Voyager_, evaluating security drills. This is the best chance to have some private life we've had in four years... or more."

"All right," Garibaldi said, "I'll see what I can do. I think Technician Robertson from C&C knows her pretty well. I can always ask her. But first, let's solve this so-called mystery here. You still game?"

Ayala nodded. "Sure, what are we going to do?"

"I'm still pretty sure that there should be thirty levels in Grey sector," Garibaldi told him. "We are going to check out the whole sector, counting the levels and see what happens."

* * *

**_Sandrine's _**

They danced for a while, swaying sensuously to the slow music, enjoying the warmth and closeness of each other. It seemed so right to both of them, almost familiar, as if they had done this together all their lives. Afterwards they could not remember who initiated the first kiss… they just realized that they were kissing, lazily, unhurriedly, in the manner of long-time lovers. As if it hadn't been only a few days since they had first met.

"That was… strange," Lillian declared when they finally broke the kiss and returned to their table to eat the excellent _bouillabaisse_, a speciality of the house, served to them during the time of their dancing. Chakotay raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Strange in a good sense or in a bad sense?" he asked. Lillian hit him with her napkin.

"Hey, I don't usually jump a man's bones on the first date."

"I won't exactly call this 'jumping my bones', but…" Chakotay turned serious, "you are actually right. I didn't expect this going so fast, either. So where does it leave us?"

Lillian shrugged, took a spoonful of her _bouillabaisse_ and closed her eyes in pleasure. "Mmm… wonderful… Well, we can pretend that nothing happened. That we hadn't experienced this instant attraction, that we aren't lonely and needy and that we have all the time of the world. Or we can accept the truth like mature adults and act on it. After all, tomorrow your whole ship could be gone again; or we all could be dead. Babylon 5 is not a safe place in these days."

They ate in silence for a while. Then Chakotay put down his spoon and looked at her intently. "I'm all for accepting the truth," he said. "But..."

"But things are rushing forward too fast for you," Lillian nodded. "I understand that. So, let's slow down a little and hope that we'll both still be here tomorrow."

"Speaking of tomorrow – are you free in the evening?" Chakotay asked.

Lillian shook her head. "I've got night watch. It has to wait till the day after."

"The day after tomorrow?" Chakotay mentally checked his schedule. "Well, I can try and swap shifts with Lieutenant Rollins, I guess. Yeah, it's doable. I'll make holodeck reservations again."

"That'd be nice," Lillian said, "but I'd like to make a request. Do you have a holographic simulation of the world you call home?"

"Dorvan V?" Chakotay shrugged. "Sure. Why do you ask?"

"I want to see it," Lillian replied. "You told me stories about your homeworld when we first met, and it seems to me that it's very important for you. That it has shaped you to become the man who you are now. I want to know that place."

TBC


	13. Part 13

**STILL NOT IN KANSAS**

**by Soledad**

**Author's notes:** For disclaimer, rating, etc., see Part One.

Some of the dialogue, as before, is directly taken from the episode "Grey 17 Is Missing". There seems to be overall agreement in the fandom about Marcus' quarters being in Brown Sector. I don't know whether this is a canon fact or not – I simply accepted it, as it made sense to me. The placement of the Zocalo in Red Sector was suggested by Winchell Chung's Babylon 5 map, as Red is the business area in general, but this is not entirely sure.

* * *

**PART THIRTEEN **

**_Brown Sector_ **

Lennier was so deep in thoughts that he nearly ran into an equally distracted Vir when he left the diplomatic sector and stepped out onto the Zocalo. They both murmured apologies but didn't stop to talk, not even for a minute. Somehow, Vir's connection to Rastenn had come between them, and they had not spoken to each other save that one time, shortly after Lennier's return to Babylon 5. When he had to share his suspicions about Rastenn with Vir. The young Centauri had seemed to avoid him ever since. Lennier hoped that it would pass eventually and the two of them would return to their usual, easy understanding. But at the moment, he had more important things to worry about.

After dinner, Delenn, Captain Janeway and the pointy-eared girl named Kes had started one of those seemingly pointless conversations that allowed women to bond easily, regardless of the confines of age, trade and even race, and which usually left men of any sort completely bewildered. Lennier saw on the eminently patient face of Commander Tuvok that the Vulcan, too, was absolutely left out of this secret understanding that was based solely on the condition of being female. After a few minutes, Tuvok had asked permission to go and seek out Lyta Alexander, with whom he had wanted to discuss some finer points of telepathy, and Captain Janeway dismissed him with a generous wave of her hand.

Lennier used the opportunity to excuse himself as well. He had pondered over the meager chances left to him to save Delenn, and now was going to check them out.

_You will have to find someone outside the chain of command_, the telepathic message of the alien girl had said. Lennier was just about to do that.

He crossed the Zocalo, getting out of the way of a gentle-faced, blonde woman in a blue _Voyager_ uniform, who held an about three-year-old child tightly, gave them a polite, apologetic smile and hurried down to Brown Sector, where the probably only person lived who might be able to help him.

* * *

_**Grey Sector **_

Gregor Ayala was a patient man. The mere fact that he had been able to keep up some sort of friendship with Ken Dalby, the most irritating – and always irritated – ex-Maquis aboard _Voyager_, proved that. He even got along with he Holodoc, most of the time. But standing in an elevator that stopped on every level while Garibaldi counted to three every time between two levels, was wearing his legendary patience thin.

"What do you hope from this?" he asked in mild irritation when the elevator stopped on Level 15. It looked exactly like the other fourteen before.

"To find the missing level," Garibaldi replied. "I _know_ there must be thirty of them. If Ms Jolie only found twenty-nine, there must be one where the tube doesn't stop."

Ayala thought about that for a moment, then he nodded. "Makes sense."

"I don't suppose you could check that for me with that little gizmo of yours?" Garibaldi printed at the tricorder on Ayala's side and stepped back into the cabin. "Grey 16," he said and counted, "One-two-three, Three seconds" The cabin stopped. The doors opened. Ayala activated his tricorder, but the useful little instrument refused to cooperate.

"Afraid not," he said to Garibaldi's earlier question. "It seems there is something interfering with the tricorder. Either some alloy in the bulkheads themselves or…"

"… a scattering field," Garibaldi finished for him. "We'll see." They stepped back into the cabin again. "Grey 17," Garibaldi ordered, and as the elevator jerked into motion, he counted again, "One-two-three… _four… five…six_," the tube stopped, the doors opened. Right across the floor, the usual sign on the wall informed them about their location: _Sector Grey, Level 17_. They looked at each other.

"_Now_ we are on something," Ayala said. "What are you going to do about it?"

"Going back to Level 16 and stop the tube midways," Garibaldi replied. Ayala lifted an inquiring eyebrow but didn't protest. This was Garibaldi's station; the security chief knew what he was doing. Or so Ayala hoped.

They stepped back into the cabin one more time, Ayala with the tricorder still in hand, just in case.

"Grey 16," Garibaldi said, and counted, "One-two... emergency stop! Open tube doors."

"This is not a valid level designation," the impassive artificial voice of the station computer told him. "Safety procedures require…"

"Security override," Garibaldi interrupted, rolling his eyes in irritation, and rattled down his security code routinely. "Allow manual opening."

The cabin doors opened for about a handbreadth with a silent groan, as if in reluctance. Ayala helped Garibaldi push them apart wide enough, so that they were able to press themselves through. Then they just stood for a while – and looked in amazement and, in Garibaldi's case, with a not-so-small amount of self-satisfaction.

Before their eyes, a whole, unnumbered level of Grey Sector stretched in much the same configuration than the others that they had already checked. It seemed just as uninhabited as the others, filled with various sorts of industrial debris. However, they must have crossed the barrier of that scattering field, because Ayala's tricorder came alive at once, with a soft _beeep_.

"Silent mode," he instructed the small tool hurriedly, and the beeping sound stopped – but not soon enough. A well-hidden sensor grid, designed most likely to register intruders, began to blink with tiny red lights, and the readouts of the tricorder gave alarming messages, at the same time as a soft, hissing sound reached their ears.

"Anesthesyne gas!" Ayala hissed. "Back into the 'lift, quickly!"

But in this very moment, the cabin doors _woosh_ed closed behind them, and wouldn't open again. The control panel next to the doors had been cannibalized, wires hanging out from behind its broken surface like the intestines of some dead animal. Ayala ripped the transparent mask from his utility belt (others often laughed about his caution, to carry one of those on him every time when in foreign environment, but it had paid out several times in the past already) and pressed it onto his face. The adhesive lining accommodated to his facial structure immediately, sealing his mouth, nose and eyes and filtering out the gas. Garibaldi, however, had no breather with him and started losing consciousness rapidly.

"Hide," he groaned to Ayala and tossed his PPG to the _Voyager_ officer with his last effort. "We must not both…"

He passed out, his head banging on the floor, but Ayala understood nevertheless. With the scattering field around this lost level, they couldn't get out any emergency call. Garibaldi's only hope was that whoever lived in this hideout, they wouldn't discover Ayala, too, so that the _Voyager_ officer would be able to free him later.

Ayala grabbed the PPG, took a quick look around and detected the perfect hiding place unerringly. A mere onlooker would have never expected him to press his bulky frame into that relatively small crack between broken mental containers, but Ayala was used to such things. This was like a Maquis operation all over again.

* * *

**_Brown Sector _**

"Enter!" called the voice of Marcus. The door slid upwards, allowing Lennier entrance to the Ranger's quarters. He stepped in and looked around, curiously.

Quite frankly, there was not much to see. A novice's cell in the Temple of Chudomo had more luxury than the practically blank room that Marcus Cole called his quarters. There was a peculiar piece of furniture that looked like an armchair but was currently pulled out to double length, serving, no doubt, as a bed. On its left side a tiny bedside table stood, with a reading lamp on it, and on the opposite wall, there was a Minbari-style shrine, with a Triluminary, illuminated by an opaque lamp from behind. The only other piece of furniture was a folding chair right of the door, with a naked light bulb above it.

"Lennier," Marcus rose from said chair, "what can I do for you?"

But Lennier was still a little distracted by the view… or moreso by the lack of anything worth viewing. "I've never seen your quarters before," he said. Very… slight."

"Like a prison cell," someone commented cynically, and Lennier literally startled a bit, only now noticing two other persons in the barely lit room. Granted, they were standing in the shadows, but still… he _should_ have noticed them. He could not afford this sort of distraction.

Marcus took no offence. "This was the best Ivanova could find, given how tight we are for space." He shrugged philosophically. "It 's enough for my needs. Any more would be distraction."

One of his guests, a slender yet apparently strong woman with intricate ridges on her forehead, eyed him as if he were some rare, exotic specimen. "Are you hiding pointy ears under that mane of yours? This sounded suspiciously Vulcan."

"B'Elanna, no Vulcan would ever enjoy Beowulf," the other visitor, the young Asian male Lennier had seen on the records of the first contact between Sheridan and the _Voyager_ crew, pointed out. "Nah, Marcus is just… weird. Monk syndrome, most likely. The Holy Poverty, and stuff like that."

Lennier fund the remark a little insulting, but Marcus just smiled, obviously having forged some sort of bond with these strangers already.

"Not everybody is interested in hoarding possessions, Harry," he said. "I like to travel lightly, as I can never know how long I'll be staying on one place. Besides, it's handy to live here. Most of my contacts would never risk to set foot to the more… _civilized_ areas of the station. Anyway, Lennier, what do you want from me?"

Lennier hesitated for a moment, but Marcus seemed to trust these humans, and he had come to trust Marcus' judgment of character.

"I'm trying to avoid breaking a promise – by breaking a promise," he finally declared. Marcus' visitors exchanged a strange look.

"Sounds Vulcan to me," the woman said with a wry grin.

The young man rolled his eyes. "Please, B'Elanna… let him speak to the end."

"That," Marcus commented dryly, "could be useful. "So, Lennier, what exactly are we talking about?"

"I promised Delenn that I would _not_ speak of this to the captain or let him now. She did not mention _you_ by name, though," Lennier added as an afterthought. "Not that was implicit…"

"Meaning," Marcus asked slowly, why his guests exchanged bewildered looks. He knew Minbari in general and Lennier in particular well enough to now that they needed to tell things following a particular pattern. There was no use urging them.

"If I tell the others in the chain of command, and Sheridan will find out, then I have broken a promise," Lennier continued, not noticing how Marcus eyes ware glassing over. "But if I break my promise by telling _you_ – since you are _not_ in the chain of command – he may not find out about this, and I will _not_ have broken a promise."

He looked at the others expectantly. The exotic alien woman named B'Elanna rolled her eyes, muttering something about Vulcans and migraine again, while her companion – Harry, Lennier remembered – just laughed helplessly. Marcus' eyes, however, began to sparkle in evil delight.

"Lennier," he said gravely, though the corners of his mouth were twitching, "I am in awe. I truly am. The way you are taking a straightforward, logical proposition and turning inside out, so that in the end it says what you _wanted_ to say, instead of what it actually means… this is amazing."

"I wonder which one of you is worse," B'Elanna muttered. "Does this come naturally to you guys, or must you attend to some special martial arts course where they teach you how to talk your adversaries to death?"

Marcus and Harry laughed, but Lennier found the whole situation far from funny. How could they not understand the importance and urgency of his mission? That h was only trying to do the right things while keeping his given word? The feeling of his own inability to handle such enormous task was overwhelming.

"Marcus!" he cried in distress and exasperation. "This is not a joke! I think Delenn's life may be in jeopardy."

_That_ silenced them all. Marcus, deadly serious at once, grabbed the young Minbari's arm (this time Lennier was too upset to protest against the unasked-for contact) and led him to the lonely chair next to the door.

"Why don't you sit down and tell us the whole story?" he asked gently, while Harry and B'Elanna got seated together on his bed… armchair… whatever. "Then we'll figure out what must – and can – be done."

* * *

**_Red Sector _**

Vir Cotto was strolling through the Zocalo, trying to decide in which bar he wanted to get gloriously drunk. It was not an easy question, as he fully intended to avoid all places that were usually frequented by his fellow Centauri – and that didn't leave much to choose from. Not much of what he'd have found acceptable, that is. He had his standards, after all. A diplomatic attaché couldn't get drunk just anywhere. It would have cast an unfavourable light on the great Centauri Republic.

Just like before when he had very nearly rammed Lennier, he was too distracted to watch his steps. Sulking was an activity that demanded one's complete and undivided attention, or it had no use at all. Thus he was properly startled when something small and soft collided with him, hitting his sensitive kneecaps with something that flet like a row of sharp teeth. Or blunt knives. He let out a rather high-pitched cry of pain – there was more reason than just the wish of being fashionable for Centauri nobles to wear those high boots that covered their knees – and was supported at once by a strong, warm hand.

"I am very sorry, sir," the gentle voice of the blonde human woman said. "My daughter got a little too excited by this place and tore herself away. Did she hurt you badly?"

Vir looked at the lovely, concerned face first and at the small child still clutching to his leg for leverage second. The little one seemed as human as her mother – aside from a row of bony spikes, shaped like the thorns of a Terran rose, parting her forehead in the exact middle. So, _that_ was what had hit his knee!

He surveyed the damage carefully. Fortunately, it was insignificant. The spikes of the child had not torn his clothes, nor had they broken his skin. Relieved, he straightened again and smiled shyly at the woman.

"That is all right, lady. I'm not hurt – she's just shocked me for a moment." He recognized the blue uniform; the woman was part of the _Voyager_ crew. In fact, she had even been part of the first delegation that had visited Babylon 5 and met Sheridan. "I think I saw you on the records," he offered hesitantly. "You are one of the _Voyager_ scientists, aren't you? Their exobiologist?"

The woman smiled and offered him a hand; apparently, humans of both universes shared this particular greeting custom. "That's right. I'm Samantha Wildman. The little whirlwind is called Naomi. She's almost three, but, as you could see, already quite a handful."

"Vir Cotto," Vir kissed her hand, which made her blush for some reason. Oh, right, humans had no idea how to treat a lady properly. "I'm the attaché of Ambassador Londo Mollari of the Centauri Republic."

"Oh my God, that's you?" To Vir's surprise, the lady officer's face beamed with delight. "Then you were the one to save our people's butts after that pool party?"

Vir blushed furiously. "Really, Lady Samantha, I didn't do anything special. I just told the truth, that's all."

"You helped my friends when nobody else would step forth to help them," Samantha Wildman declared, "and that means that you are my friend, too. Which, on the other hand, means, that I'll have to buy you a drink. Where can I do that?"

Vir hesitated. Getting drunk was no longer his agenda. Keeping the pleasant company as long as possible suddenly became much more important. He longed for company. For someone he could simply talk to and forget his concerns.

"If I may make a different suggestion," he said, and Sam Wildman nodded. "I haven't had time for dinner yet. There is a restaurant here that offers excellently-made Centauri specialities – I'd love to introduce you to them if you're willing to give them a try."

Sam Wildman laughed. "Why not? As long as they are not harmful for the human metabolism, I'm always willing to try out new things."

"Then it'd be my pleasure to help you to this new experience," Vir offered his arm and Sam took it without hesitation. Arm in arm, they left in the direction of the best Centauri restaurant.

From a shadowy corner, disguised by the wide hood of his cloak, Alyt Neroon glared after them in suspicion. Now it seemed that the Centauri would find a way to these strange humans, after all. He didn't like it. On the other hand, it was possible that the human woman would tell Vir Cotto things that might be interesting for Neroon as well. His decision made, he left the shadows and followed them.

* * *

**_Blue Sector _**

At the same time, Chakotay and Lillian Hobbs reached the section of Blue Sector where the quarters of medical personnel were situated. Being somewhat old-fashioned, Chakotay had insisted on escorting her home, and Lillian didn't mind at all. She enjoyed not only his company but also the jealous looks of other women (and even of the one or other man) cast in their direction.

"Here we are," she said, inserting the code card into the slot. "Are you sure you don't want to come in for a minute? I'd offer you coffee, clichéd as it might sound, but I'm afraid I've run out of it weeks ago."

Chakotay shook his head apologetically. "Not today, I'm afraid. As you know, I've got the Alpha shift tomorrow. Besides, don't you think that we should consult the doctor before we... well, before we go any further? Even though we are both humans, there might be risks…" He trailed off, because Lillian's face became hard as steel, and he understood that he had managed to insult her somehow.

"My dear Commander," Lillian Hobbs said in the manner that she usually reserved for particularly difficult patients, "in case you have forgotten, on this station _I am_ 'the doctor'. I might not be called Chief Medical Officer like your hologram, although I am currently filling in for one right now; but even though I'm not programmed with the knowledge of hundreds of physicians, I understand my job and I am damn good at it. Or do I look like a fool to you, who wouldn't do her research considering possible risks?"

"I'm sorry," Chakotay seemed decidedly uncomfortable. "I didn't mean to question your competence, really. I'm just…"

"Getting cold feet, I know," Lillian sighed in defeat. "Well, you might want to ask yourself what is it you are really afraid of – the health risks or allowing anyone to get close? If you manage to find an answer, you know how to contact me."

With that, she turned on her heels and entered her quarters, surprise a little by her own sudden urge to be hurtful. It was not her common trait. Maybe it was the disappointment; maybe the fear that hey might not, after all, have the time to go slowly; the dread of further _what if_s. Or the old defensive mechanism to hurt the other before she could get hurt herself. She was not entirely sure. All she could feel was a helpless anger that even her own more somber half found illogical. And yet, she couldn't help but feel angry,

"This is all my fault," she declared to the dark and empty room. "I should never have agreed to a blind date in the first place. I was perfectly content being alone. I had enough stress without additional complications. I should have stuck to my work. Yes, that would have been much, much better."

She began to undress, with quick, jerking motions, not caring that she tore buttons and clasps from her dress in the process, blinking back the tears angrily.

* * *

_**Brown Section – Marcus' quarters **_

"So, Lennier," Marcus said patiently, "would you, please, stop fretting and tell me why do you think that Delenn may be in danger?"

Lennier sighed. This was not an easy thing to admit. That Minbari – even those of the Warrior Caste – could ever stoop so low.

"One of our own… a former member of the Grey Council… has challenged her right to lead the Anla'shok. The Rangers," he added, for the visitors' sake. "I think, he… he may resort to violence to stop her."

"Warrior Caste?" It was more a statement from Marcus' side than a real question, but Lennier nodded anyway. Marcus made a wry face. "Typical."

Harry looked at Marcus in confusion. "Have you not told me that Minbari do _not_ kill Minbari?"

"They usually don't," Marcus replied. "It hasn't happened in the last thousand years."

"Correct," Lennier nodded. "And given Delenn's position, it would be even more unthinkable. If Neroon harms her… If a Minbari of one caste even tries to kill another, especially one from a different caste, then the shock and anger will lead to retributions back home."

"It could even cause a civil war between the castes, couldn't it?" B'Elanna realized, her knowledge of Klingon customs coming handy in understanding the dilemma. Lennier nodded again, miserably.

"And the same would happen if Lennier went after the guy who is trying to kill Delenn," Marcus added.

"So, you are looking for a non-Minbari to stop him, aren't you?" B'Elanna asked. "Because that way, the castes will be kept out of the conflict and Delenn could still be saved, right?"

"Yes," Lennier admitted, not able to raise his eyes.

"You have just found the right person," Marcus told him determinedly.

* * *

_**Grey Sector **_

Deep down, on the unnamed level between Grey 16 and Grey 17, Gregor Ayala watched wih an increasing feel of dread as a hidden maintenance door opened in the bulkhead, not far from his hiding place. Three men stepped out of it, humans, if their looks could be trusted, wearing PPGs and some sort of unidentifiable combat gear. It was not the same thing station security usually wore, but not very far from it, either. Their whole bearing screamed trained soldier – or, at the very least, experienced mercenary – and Ayala understood that Babylon 5 might have a more serious problem than a missing level of Grey Sector.

Two of the men grabbed Garibaldi's arms and legs and dragged him away into one of the adjoining rooms on the left side. Ayala, using every trick of Maquis stealth that his body still remembered, followed them, keeping in the shadows as much as possible.

The odds were not good. There could have been dozens of these well-armed people down here, on a level of the existence of which nobody seemed to know. A beam-out call was out of the question, not only because of the scattering field. He couldn't risk revealing himself; so far the people seemed to assume that Garibaldi was alone. Hopefully, they would be busy enough with the security chief to forget to check for other possible intruders.

Yeah, the odds were not good. But Gregor Ayala was used to fight impossible odds. All he needed was a good chance – and a healthy amount of luck.

TBC


	14. Part 14

**STILL NOT IN KANSAS**

**by Soledad**

**Author's notes:** For disclaimer, rating, etc., see Part One.

To tell the truth, this chapter wasn't planned in advance. But Ch. 13 has grown long enough as it is, so I decided to split the material.

Some of the dialogue, as before, is more or less directly taken from the episode "Grey 17 Is Missing". The details about Kes and Janeway's pasts are from the Voyager episodes "Resolutions" and "Coda".

* * *

**PART FOURTEEN**

**_Brown Sector – Marcus' quarters_**

"Marcus, are you certain that you want to do this?" Harry Kim asked worriedly. "I don't like the sound of it; interfering with a purely Minbari affair could cause serious diplomatic issues."

"I'm a Ranger; that's a Minbari organization, even though it accepts humans, too. Therefore, I'm involved anyway," Marcus shrugged. "And Delenn is our leader; the One, as we call her. We live for the One – we die for the One. It's that simple."

"Not everyone has sworn to the Prime Directive, Starfleet," B'Elanna pointed out teasingly.

"B'Elanna, I've told you a hundred times: _don't call me Starfleet_," Harry protested automatically. The joke between the two of them was so old that it practically ran on autopilot. Then he turned back to Marcus. "So, you are really determined to confront this… this Neroon, aren't you? Why do I have the feeling as if you were about to provoke a seven-foot-tall Klingon into beating you to bloody pulp?"

"Because he most likely is," B'Elanna commented cynically. "What are you planning to do anyway? And, above everything else, _how_?"

"Neroon has probably gone into hiding," Marcus answered thoughtfully. "Lennier, can you probably find him before the ceremony?"

Lennier hesitated for a moment. "It would be difficult. He won't appear again before he is ready to move, but… yes, it can be done."

Marcus grinned. "I knew you must still have contacts to the Minbari community here. Even to the Warrior Caste."

"Of course I do, I'm Delenn's aide; I need to be informed." Lennier hesitated again. "Marcus, you need only to delay Neroon until the ceremony is complete. Once it's done, it cannot be undone."

"Which still could be long enough for him to break every bone in Marcus' body, right?" Harry asked, worried about his new friend. Lennier nodded.

"Unfortunately, yes. Minbari are stronger than humans. Try to avoid confronting Neroon directly," he warned Marcus. "He is one of the best of the Warrior Caste. He is trained to killing your people. He is very good at what he does."

"Does this sound vaguely Klingon to you?" Harry whispered to B'Elanna, earning a sharp elbow into his ribs for his efforts.

"Just tell me when and where," Marcus said to Lennier, "and leave the rest to me."

B'Elanna rolled her eyes. "Yep, definitely Klingon," she replied to Harry. "It seems that every species has the urge to get in touch with their inner Klingon time and again. How utterly glorious and honourable."

The biting sarcasm in her voice surprised both Marcus and Lennier a little. But Harry, who new her personal background, only nodded in understanding.

* * *

**_Green Sector – Delenn's quarters_**

When (after finishing some overdue paperwork) Captain Sheridan entered Delenn's quarters, he found the three very different women in deep conversation. Delenn waved him to join them and handed him some herbal tea, but her attention was focused on Janeway. It seemed that the captain of _Voyager_ was telling stories from her childhood.

"So, when we were big enough to keep up with them, my parents took us – that is, my sister Phoebe and me – on backpacking trips," she remembered. "They thought we should all keep a connection to our pioneer roots," she added with a snort.

"That was remarkable insight from a Starfleet admiral," Delenn offered mildly. Janeway wrinkled her nose in distaste.

"That might be. But I _hated_ it nevertheless. No bed, no replicators, no bathtubs… I guess I was always a child of the 24th century."

That careless remark put a damper on the conversation for a moment. The fact that the _Voyager_ crew came from a hundred years in the future was almost harder to imagine than the fact that they came from a different universe. Meeting Babylon 4 was one thing – that had been an isolated incident – but sitting across someone who had came from the future and was determined to return there was… well, a little unsettling.

"So, what else were you forced to learn as a child?" Sheridan asked jokingly after a moment of silence.

"Gardening," Janeway replied with a sigh. "I grew up among farmers. My parents were naturalists – a rather popular philosophy on _our_ Earth – and insisted we learn some basic gardening skills."

"Did you hate it as much as the camping trips?" Sheridan grinned. Janeway grinned back.

"Of course. Who wanted to muck around in the dirt when you could be studying quantum mechanics? Fortunately, aboard _Voyager_ the hydroponic gardens are in Kes' very capable hands."

Delenn and Sheridan looked automatically at the fragile, fairy-like girl who had managed to defeat an angry Vorlon.

"Did your parents make you become a gardener, too?" Sheridan asked. Kes shook her head, a wistful smile on her delicate face.

"I do not remember my mother," she said, "but my father was a very wise man. More than anyone, he shaped the person I am; he was the great inspiration of my life. He never forced me to do anything, but he lived his ideals and taught me to live mine. If it hadn't been for him, I would have never questioned my people's beliefs. I would have never left our city to come to the surface. I would have never met Captain Janeway and the rest of the _Voyager_ crew."

She fell silent for a moment, her attention turning inwards, re-evaluating her memories. Sheridan would have _loved_ to ask questions – the idea of a subterranean culture fascinated him – but he didn't dare. Finally, Janeway touched Kes' arm in a motherly manner, bringing her back to the present.

"Then we owe your father a debt," she said gently. "It would difficult to imagine this journey without you." Kes nodded her thanks with a sad little smile.

"When he died, I had just turned one year old," she continued, and Sheridan had to remind himself that this 'girl' was actually a mature woman in her people's terms, at the age of just over four having half of her life beyond her already. "I didn't know how I'd get through the rest of my life without him. But then I started working with Tuvok, and I didn't miss him so much anymore."

"I'm sure that Mr. Tuvok would be honoured by the comparison," said Janeway. Then she smiled and turned to Delenn. "What about you, Ambassador?"

"Yes, Delenn, tell us about your family," Sheridan added. "You've never talked much about your life back home."

"It's difficult to explain to a non-Minbari…" Delenn began, and she was surprised to see identical grins on Kes and Janeway's faces.

"Spoken like a true Vulcan," Janeway commented. "Evasive and private to the bitter end. You should discuss philosophy with Mr. Tuvok when you find the time, Ambassador. I'm sure the results would be… fascinating."

Delenn couldn't understand what her guests found so funny (neither did Sheridan, though he realized that the last remark must have been some insider joke), but politeness demanded that she honour their request.

"After I was born, my mother entered the Sisters of Valeria," she said slowly. "I've seen her only twice since."

Janeway stared at her in shock. "What? That's horrible!"

"No, no," Delenn protested, "it's a great honour to be accepted by the Sisters. I miss her greatly, but… it's her wish."

"And that makes leaving a newborn child behind right?" Janeway asked. "What is it with people and monasteries anyway? B'Elanna's mother wanted to put her into a Klingon monastery… Tuvok spent decades in a Vulcan monastery… and I wouldn't be surprised if even Harry had planned to join a Buddhist monastery at some point of his young life."

"Well, I met the Dalai Lama once," Sheridan offered. It was a remarkable experience." As Janeway kept shaking her head, he turned to Delenn. "And your father?"

"He passed beyond the Veil, ten years ago," Delenn replied with a sorrowful little smile. "They say that making war against your people broke his heart."

"My father died over fifteen years ago," Janeway said quietly. "Drowned under the polar icecap on Tau Ceti Prime. It hit me so hard that I fell into depression. Spent months in bed, sleeping away my days rather than confronting my feelings. I'm not sure what would have happened if my sister hadn't forced me into the real world again. Granted, her methods were less than pleasant, but she was right. Grief is a barren thing. We should remember the lives of our loved ones… the good moments that we shared."

"I remember, when I was a child, my father would take me with him to the Temple," Delenn said with a smile full of fond memories. "He would carry me on his shoulders, so that I could see everything."

"How old were you?" Janeway asked.

"I just finished my first cycle when he took me with him for the first time," Delenn calculated for a moment. "That would make a year and a half in Earth terms. "He kept doing so for the next four cycles, and I was excited to go with him, every time. But one day, when I came outside to him to go to the Temple, as usual, he said, 'I am sorry, Delenn, but you are too big for me now to carry you.' I realized then that my father would never carry me again in his arms. I felt such loss…" she swallowed hard, unable to continue. The others waited patiently.

"And I knew, for the first time, that one day I would lose him. Then I looked in his eyes, and I saw that he was thinking the same thing. I don't think that I ever loved him more than in that moment," she swallowed again, almost audibly, her eyes shining with unshed tears. Kes reached out with a small hand and touched Delenn's gently, transferring comforting thoughts without words. Delenn looked at her, signalling her thanks with a slight nod.

In that moment, Sheridan would have given an arm to be in Kes' place.

* * *

**_Red Sector – Fresh Air Restaurant_**

Neroon followed the attaché of the Centauri ambassador and the blonde woman from _Voyager_ to the hollow interior of Babylon 5's rotating section – the area called the Garden. The main purpose of the Garden was, of course, to provide food and oxygen and water reclamation for the station, as they couldn't be dependant on imported food. A small percentage of the 12 square miles of vegetation, however, was used for recreation.

Wrapped around the southern end of the Garden was Red Sector, the interior of which was lined with marketplaces, business areas – the Zocalo being the main one among them. But there were also hotel suites, casinos, bars, brothels, hundreds of shops, stands, bars, restaurants, and clubs.

The Garden itself offered various amenities to station inhabitants, among others a hedge maze, a Zen garden, sports fields, a recreation lake, a pavilion, and the high class Fresh Air Restaurant – the same one Vir and his companions were aiming. Starting from the Zocalo, where they had happened to run into each other (and rather literally, at that), they crossed leisurely the business area and reached the Garden's end. Usually, they should have booked a table in the Fresh Air Restaurant, but business had been low nowadays; and besides, diplomatic personnel had always been favoured to common customers.

Neroon was glad he had thought to take his credit chit with him when he had left his hideout. Not wearing his Warrior Caste uniform, he could easily blend in with the small crowd filling the expensive place, and he was even lucky enough to find an empty table within earshot to the one that Vir and his guest occupied. Meaning Minbari earshot, of course; a human would most likely not have heard a word of their quiet conversation.

Vir ordered Treel, a Centauri fish that Neroon knew and found tasty himself. The traditional preparation, using the most exotic spices, usually made humans cough and drink huge gulps of water to soothe the burning in their throat, but the blonde woman, whose name was apparently "Sam" (a fact that Neroon found confusing, as he had thought that was a male name among humans) didn't show any sign of trouble.

"I'm used to spicy food," she explained, smiling. "Mr. Neelix, our chef, has an exaggerated fondness for spices. Besides, my husband used them rather graciously, too, when he was cooking."

"Forgive my curiosity, but you speak of your husband in past tense," Vir said hesitatingly. "Are you no more together?"

Sam shook her head, a little sadly. "No, he is at Deep Space Nine, a space station back… back where we have come from. He doesn't even know what happened to us. We were only supposed to be out two or three weeks. Not four years… or who knows how much longer yet."

"You left your husband behind but took your child with you?" Vir tried to see clear in the matter. The blonde woman laughed.

"No, Naomi was born aboard _Voyager_, during the first year of our journey."

"She is only three?" Vir looked at the little girl in amazement. "She looks a lot older."

"That's a result of her mixed heritage," Sam Wildman smiled. "My husband is K'tarian. They are a robust species and grow up much faster than humans do. Naomi has inherited that trait from her father."

"Oh," Vir nodded in understanding, "so there is where those spikes on her forehead come from. I assume her birth was a great event in the life of your crew."

"Of course," Sam nodded. "She was the first, and to date only child born aboard. Strangely enough, for some reason I was so certain that it would be a boy. I even considered naming 'him' after my husband. It's been a tradition in his family for over five generations."

"I'm sure he'd have been very pleased," Vir replied politely. Tradition was something a Centauri understood very well.

"But the child probably wouldn't," Sam laughed. "My husband's name is Greskrendrek – not necessarily one a half-human child would like to wear."

At the nearby table, his face still shrouded by the wide hood of his robe, Neroon glared at them in utter disgust. Interbreeding! Hybrids! These humans were like vermin – swarming over all places, diluting the purity of their own race as well as that of other races, creating unnatural offspring…

The thought that they were now infesting Minbar as well was intolerable. It was bad enough that Delenn chose to deform herself in such unnatural way, becoming neither human nor Minbari but some freak in-between, but allowing the human presence to spread over Minbar like a plague was out of the question. A line had to be drawn here, and Neroon was determined to be the one who did the drawing.

He rose abruptly and left the restaurant with long strides, barely restraining his seething anger. He didn't notice the wide-eyed shock on the face of the red-haired human telepath sitting at a small table in the corner with a dark-skinned, pointy-eared alien, wearing the golden _Voyager_ uniform.

* * *

**_Grey Sector – the unnumbered level_**

Against any hope, Ayala actually managed to stalk after Garibaldi's kidnapper unnoticed, following them into what seemed like a huge, abandoned industrial storeroom. The experienced eye of the ex-Maquis, however, realised that it was much, much more than that – it was the headquarters of whatever group of people lived in this hidden sector. Which was exactly the reason why they hadn't detected him so far. They didn't expect intruders here.

The seemingly random placing of metal containers and other pieces of equipment had a certain pattern that Ayala was all too familiar with. Whoever these people might have been, they clearly indulged themselves in guerrilla warfare – and since they were apparently human, their enemy must have been Babylon 5 itself, its commander, its security forces, and in the end, all people who lived on it.

Ayala remembered the station's recent history, described him in Garibaldi's unique storytelling style: the planned takeover by some elite EarthGov organization called the Nightwatch; the assassination of Ambassador Delenn, the open attack of EarthForce against their own station, the earlier attempts from other organizations like Home Guard and the likes…. Yep, Tuvok's second had a pretty good idea who these people could be. And considering the fact that they were wearing some sort of combat gear openly – and that they did not post guards around this particular room – showed that they felt safe… an arrogance almost worthy the Cardassians.

Well, the spoonheads had had to learn the hard way that overconfidence came right before the fall. With a grim expression on his usually stoic face, Gregor Ayala decided to try sneaking closer to hear them. He needed more information. Back in full Maquis mode again, an observer would have been amazed by the light-footed ease with which his massive form moved, like a ghost, among the huge chunks of debris covering the floor.

Nearer he crept, sliding from container to container, using them for cover. He could see – and hear – them without difficulty now. At first sight he counted six of them, all wearing the same dark coveralls and thick vests, with extra pockets for the reserve energy packs for their PPGs. Heavily armed, all of them; aside from the PPGs, they also had long knives in their combat boots.

The chief honcho – a tall, discretely greying guy with a surprisingly cultivated face – looked down at the unconscious form of Garibaldi, thrown practically at his feet, and shook his head in mock sympathy.

"Well, well, Chief," he said in the educated manner of a born propagandist, "have I not warned you that you would end up badly if you follow that treacherous path of yours? But you wouldn't listen. What a shame; it seems that I have been right, after all."

"We should have shot him, long ago," a young, black-haired man with a dimpled chin commented darkly.

"You tried that two years ago, Jack, when you used to be his right hand," the leader pointed out. "And to what end? Not only had he survived, he also managed to identify you. If not for the Home Guard's intervention, you would be rotting in prison now – or would have been spaced so fast as if you had been born in vacuum, to borrow the Chief's favourite speech."

"Besides, we need him alive," a smooth voice added, and to Ayala's utter shock, another man, this one sandy-haired and rather young, even handsome in that deceivingly harmless manner of his, stepped forth out of nowhere. "We need him at home, court-martialed and properly sentenced, to satisfy people's demand for justice."

"Damn right," the greying leader nodded. "So, lock him away in the back room and let's discuss our next step. We need to move; time is running out. If the Chief could find us, maybe other people would be able to do so, too. We can't take that kind of risk."

Four other men, wearing he same strange gear as the newcomer, stepped forth, seemingly out of thin air and dragged Garibaldi away. Ayala crouched low behind his containers, the rightness of Chakotay's mantra, often repeated and much too infrequently followed, hitting him like a brick wall, _Never underestimate your enemy!_ The realization how easily those men with personal cloaking fields could have spotted him and shot him on the spot sent waves of cold fear throughout his body.

Obviously, he wasn't the only one without a fondness for those things. The young man named Jack shuddered as he looked after the four carrying Garibaldi away.

"I can't get used to these black light camouflage gears. They are… creepy. Besides, they only can be used when the wearer doesn't move and is in the dark or in the shadow."

"They are useful nevertheless," the newcomer corrected coldly. "It took EarthForce R&D years to reverse-engineer the changeling net in order to create these suits. And it cost a lot of money. Losing the prototypes two years ago was… unfortunate and caused a setback for the research. It's a good thing that Mr. Armstrong managed to get them out of the security locker just in time."

The greying leader – although Ayala began to wonder if he really was the leader of the whole operation or only that of the fighting troops – inclined his head. "Always glad to be of service, Mr. Biggs. Besides, these suits helped us to smuggle a great lot of our people back to the station. Now; do you have new orders for us?"

"They aren't exactly new," the man named Biggs, apparently some sort of link to EarthGov, shrugged. "The orders are still the same as they were when your people messed up the whole action. Our primary targets are still the Minbari… or Ambassador Delenn, to be more accurate. We need those Minbari cruisers off the station, so that our forces can move in and take over."

"We could hit her during that ridiculous inauguration ceremony that they are planning," Armstrong suggested. But Biggs shook his head.

"The Minbari might solve the problem for us themselves. Delenn has quite an opposition back home, mostly among the Warrior Caste. Her… transformation and the following actions haven't been widely accepted, and Mr. Stone did a nice job keeping the tempers boiling. Amazing, what a single empath can do with these dumb aliens, when he is motivated."

"_Was_ he motivated, then?" Armstrong asked quietly, his voice cold. Biggs shrugged.

"Last time I heard, he was still alive. Isn't that motivation enough? One has to keep these PSI-freaks on a short lash, or else they'll start plotting their own little plans… which they are _not_ supposed to do. They are useful tools, as long as they know their place – but expendable, if they do not."

Ayala's heart had grown ice cold while listening to this conversation. He realised that they had stumbled into a conspiracy that was a number or two too big for two simple security officers. He needed reinforcements. But to ask for an emergency beam-out, even though it only needed a touch on his comm badge and no speak at all, he had to neutralize the scattering field around this sector. Otherwise, his chances were virtually nonexistent. This was not the usual lonely fight against impossible odds anymore.

* * *

**_Voyager – Deck 3_**

Chakotay returned to his quarters in a rather depressed mood. He didn't understand what he had done wrong that had made Lillian so mad at him. He had really wanted to go slowly and explore the possibilities that this relationship could offer to them. Apparently, Lillian had had other expectations.

He shook his head, deciding that a spirit walk would be in order. After all, his animal guide was a female, too. Maybe she could enlighten him about the motivations and needs of a woman. The Spirits knew that he needed some guidance in this matter.

But barely had he got out his medicine bundle, he hadn't even time to sit down on the floor as was his wont, when his doorbell rang. Wonderful. As usual, some crisis seemed to have chosen this most inappropriate time to emerge. Well, that couldn't be helped. Chakotay put the medicine bundle back to its place and called out, "Come in!"

To his honest surprise – as he thought them to still be over on Babylon 5, visiting their new friend, the Ranger – in stormed B'Elanna and Harry, in a highly agitated state of mind.

"Chakotay, we have a problem," as usual, B'Elanna cut right to the core of things, without wasting her time with small talk or preamble.

"Actually, we have two," Harry added. Chakotay sighed.

"And you are absolutely sure that Ayala can't handle these problems of yours? He should have been returned from the station an hour ago or so."

"Quite sure," Harry replied with a nervous laughter. "You see, one of the problems is that Ayala disappeared."

TBC


	15. Part 15

**STILL NOT IN KANSAS**

**by Soledad**

**Author's notes:** For disclaimer, rating, etc., see Part One.

Some of the dialogue, as before, is directly taken from the episode "Grey 17 Is Missing". This is a somewhat shorter chapter again, but it seemed a good place to stop. The Grey 17 timeline isn't entirely the same as in the actual episode.

* * *

**PART FIFTEEN **

**_Red Sector – Fresh Air Restaurant_**

Lyta had been pleasantly surprised when Tuvok had contacted her via BabCom and suggested a meeting in the Fresh Air Restaurant. She had never expected the stoic Vulcan to choose the most expensive place on the whole station, but on second thought understood the reasoning behind his choice. In the Fresh Air, they were less likely to be crowded, and it was _not_ a noisy place. Besides, they could ask for a privacy screen and thus talk freely, without anyone spying on them.

Tuvok showed himself properly impressed by the privacy screen; apparently, the Federation either didn't have the technology to provide such personal shielding or they didn't see the necessity for it. Lyta rarely used it herself, not since she wasn't a commercial telepath anymore. But right now, she was thankful for its existence, as her communication with the Vulcan was of very personal nature. She didn't want anyone else to listen.

She had never told anyone about the things she had seen, learnt and gone through on the Vorlon homeworld. That sort of knowledge would have been dangerous for anyone. Besides, she couldn't trust anyone – telepath _or_ mundane – with those dark secrets, Meeting Tuvok, sharing some of her memories with him, made her burden more bearable, though. And the Vulcan, using the millennia-old mental techniques of his people, helped her to establish new, stronger shields, so that not even Ulkesh could intrude her thoughts so easily as before.

Right now, however, they were simply talking, discussing things of personal matter. Spending time with someone for whom being a telepath was the norm, not some sort of abomination, was incredibly liberating. And Tuvok, unbelievable as it seemed more than hundred years old, had seen much and had travelled much and turned out a very interesting person to talk to.

They had seen Vir and the Wildmans entering the restaurant, with an unknown Minbari in tail, but paid them little attention. Both felt so relaxed in each other's company as rarely before in the recent years, eating some vegetable dish and sipping herbal tea in quiet understanding. Tuvok seemed intrigued by Minbari culture, and Lyta offered what little information she could provide, not having dealt with Minbari all too frequently.

"Their caste system actually predates Valen by millennia," she explained, "but it's said that Valen was the one who created a lasting peace among the castes. Apparently, there has not been a murderer on Minbar since Valen's time, and…"

She trailed off, staring after the Minbari who was just storming out of the restaurant with a clouded face.

"And what?" Tuvok asked politely.

"And it seems that this might change, soon," Lyta whispered, clearly shaken. Then she collected herself, reactivated the privacy screen and rose. "I must find Mr. Garibaldi."

"He is with my second, I was told," Tuvok touched his comm badge. "Tuvok to Ayala." No reaction. "Mr. Ayala, report immediately." Still nothing. "This is strange. Lieutenant Ayala never goes anywhere without a comm badge, and he is usually quite reliable." He touched his comm badge again. "Tuvok to _Voyager_."

"Rollins here, sir."

"Mr. Rollins, I have lost contact with Lieutenant Ayala. Can you check out his whereabouts?"

"Just a moment, sir… now, that's strange."

"Please specify, Mr. Rollins."

"We can't trace his comm badge anymore."

Lyta and Tuvok exchanged concerned looks. This was definitely not good.

"Try to contact station security," Tuvok instructed the officer on duty. "And give me the coordinates where his comm badge was located the last time."

"You are going to search for him, sir?"

"Affirmative. I want a security detail here – clear it with station security. Mr. Ayala is not a man to simply vanish voluntarily. We need to find him."

"Aye, sir. Should I alert the captain?"

"Negative. I shall do so myself. But inform Commander Chakotay, and have Transporter Room 2 on alert. We might need that emergency beam-out, after all.

"Aye, sir," the bodiless voice of the _Voyager_ officer answered and the connection was broken.

Lyta looked at Tuvok knowingly. "You are not telling this your captain, are you?"

"Not right away," Tuvok answered calmly. "The captain has been under much pressure lately. I am going to try and find Lieutenant Ayala on my own first."

* * *

**_Voyager – Deck 5_**

"What do you mean 'disappeared'?" Chakotay looked at Harry with a frown. "One can't just disappear from a closed station like this. Especially not with a functioning comm badge."

"That is the problem, sir," Harry explained. "The computer registered his whereabouts just fine – until an hour ago. Then the signal was cut off somewhere in Grey Sector."

Chakotay's frown deepened. "Have you contacted station security?"

"Lieutenant Rollins has," Harry said. "Mr. Garibaldi's second, a certain Mr. Allen, told him that Ayala's gone with the chief to investigate something in Grey Sector. Neither of them has returned so far… and they can't reach Mr. Garibaldi through his comm link, either."

"Which is really lousy timing, considering the fact that Ambassador Delenn might be assassinated on her own inauguration ceremony, as it seems," B'Elanna added grimly.

Chakotay felt the beginning of a familiar throbbing in his temples, which usually signalled the coming of a monstrous headache.

"All right, you two," he said, forcing himself to patience. "Sit down and tell me everything. In chronological order, if possible."

* * *

**_The Ceremony Chamber_**

The room selected for the inauguration ceremony of the new Ranger leader was a circular one, with a geometrically patterned mosaic floor. Right now not much could be seen from that pattern, though, as a long, light blue carpet had been laid across it, from the entrance of the room up to the opposite wall. On this carpet the future Entil'zha would walk, turn around and stand in front of the Anla'shok standard and wait for the procession that would bring her the robe of her new office.

Two young Minbari, clad in long, light brown ceremonial robes with very wide, pale purple sleeves, were holding said standard, squatted on the floor, while a third one maneuvered it upwards with the help of a thin rope. Lennier, standing in the middle of the chamber, navigated the standard-bearers with small gestures of his hand, as the banner was rising slowly, inch by inch upwards.

It was made of three pieces of some shiny, sea blue fabric, the middle field a slightly paler shade than the two on the sides. In the middle of the standard was a large picture of the Isil'zha badge of the Anla'shok. It looked as if two stylised figures, a silver Minbari and a golden human, had encircled the sacred stone with their own bodies protectively, holding above it a red banner with five small, white, four-pointed stars.

When the standard was high enough for the Ranger logo to be just about in the height of someone's head, Lennier signalled his satisfaction. The three Minbari fixed the standard in that position, then they bowed and left. Lennier was about to return their bow and turn his attention to the next phase of preparations, when one of his associates hurried into the room. He whispered something in Lennier's ear; Lennier nodded, bowed his thanks, and then closed his eyes for a moment.

They had found Neroon's hiding place. As he had suspected, the warrior was hiding in Down Below. From there, Neroon had only one way to get to this level: the low corridors the maintenance workers used. That was the place where Marcus would have to stop him.

Lennier shook his head in regret – he truly, honestly didn't like to send Marcus into such danger – but he had no choice. Delenn had to be protected, and Marcus volunteered. What was more important, the human Ranger was the only one who could do this.

The young aide sighed and aimed his own quarters. He couldn't deliver this sensitive piece of information through an open channel.

* * *

**_Voyager – Chakotay's quarters_**

"So, let's see if I understand you correctly. You want to interfere with a purely Minbari matter – one that not even Captain Sheridan is allowed to interfere with, not to mention the fact that _our_ captain has us explicitly forbidden to interfere with local events – and this at a time when half of our own security is over on the station, _without_ the knowledge or permission of either Captain Janeway or myself, looking for Ayala," Chakotay summarized the events in a tightly controlled voice. "Have I forgotten anything?"

"Well, Mr. Tuvok _did_ act within the parameters of his authority," Harry offered apologetically. "And we are not going to _interfere_. We just want to keep an eye on Marcus, so that we can beam him to Sickbay if necessary, when the… erm… confrontation is over."

Chakotay's brows knitted together. "Correct me if I'm mistaken, Ensign, but didn't the captain forbid any transporter activity, unless there is a life-or-death emergency?"

"She did," Harry admitted. "But Commander, there _will_ be a lethal encounter! It's like… like one of our human security officers trying to stop a seven-foot Klingon berserker. Marcus has no chance against this… this Neroon, Lennier said that clearly enough. Getting medical aid would be crucial for his survival."

"I see," Chakotay remained silent for a moment. "What do you have in mind?"

"Surveillance," Harry replied promptly. Chakotay raised a questioning brow, and B'Elanna grinned.

"Harry slipped Marcus a rubindium microtransponder by the last handshake. It must be firmly embedded in his wrist by now. We can trace him and tap into the SecureCam network to watch him trough the security cameras places all over the station."

Chakotay frowned. "Ensign, do you regularly carry transponder injectors on you to bug unsuspecting people without their consent?"

"Of course not, sir," poor Harry became beet red again. "Actually, B'Elanna and I wanted to test on ourselves whether the transponder would work despite the background radiation of the fusion reactors. That's why we had the injector with us, honestly. Then I… I acted spontaneously, sir."

"Chakotay," B'Elanna leaned forward, "the bottom line is: Marcus is a friend. He didn't hesitate to come to our rescue during that bar fight, although he barely knew us. We owe him our help!"

"During a bar fight which shouldn't have happened in the first place," Chakotay corrected mildly, but he wasn't really opposed to the idea. "All right; watch him if you want, but remember: under no circumstances are you allowed to interfere, until it's over. Our presence disturbs their lives enough as it is."

"Understood, sir," Harry grinned in relief. Chakotay shook his head.

"I hope so. Now, get out, both of you. I need to go to the bridge and coordinate the search for Ayala."

* * *

**_Green Sector – Delenn's quarters_**

"Thank you for the invitation, Ambassador," Janeway rose from her seat, smiling; Sheridan was surprised how charming that smile looked on her stern face. "It was a very pleasant evening. Hopefully, we'll be able to return the favour aboard _Voyager_, soon."

"Not before the ceremony, I'm afraid," Delenn replied with honest regret; she'd have liked a visit on the ship very much. "There is so much to do, so much to prepare. Even with Lennier's help, I'll be too busy for anything else for a while."

"When, exactly, is the ceremony?" Janeway asked.

"Tomorrow, at 1800 station time," Delenn smiled at her. "You and your officers are welcome to witness, of course."

"Thank you," Janeway said, surprised. "I think, I will, and some of the others probably too. But we really have to go now. It's getting late."

"Mind if I walk you to your ship?" Sheridan asked. "I didn't have the time to take a closer look earlier, and as things keep stumbling from one crisis into the next one around here, I might not get another chance."

"Be my guest," Janeway smiled again.

"I feel like going for a walk myself," Delenn, too, rose. "I'll have to welcome the freshly arrived Rangers anyway – customs is on the same way."

"How many of them did you say you are calling in?" Sheridan teased. But Delenn's expression remained very serious.

"Quite a few, I'm afraid. It's necessary for the ceremony. Besides, it serves the purpose to meet them again," she added thoughtfully. "There will be so many faces I haven't seen so long… It brings back a lot of memories."

"Pleasant ones, I hope," Janeway said.

Delenn made an uncertain gesture. "Mostly, but not exclusively. Still, I am grateful to meet every single one of them… especially the trainees and the new recruits. There are some I have never seen before. I am supposed to become their leader who might send them to dangerous missions, often to hopeless ones – I need to know them all."

"One never knows the lower decks well enough," Janeway murmured, a little sadly. "And when they are gone, you lie in your bed, awake, and try to remember their faces – only to realize that you can't." She swallowed hard, and Sheridan, formerly captain of a starship himself, nodded in understanding.

"Did you have heavy losses?" he asked.

"I lost almost half of my crew when we landed on the other side of our Galaxy, within minutes," Janeway closed her eyes for a moment. "You have fought an interplanetary war, Captain, you know what superior alien technology can do. Now, imagine a displacement wave strong enough to hurl your ship seventy thousand light years across the Galaxy… I still wonder how _Voyager_ managed to remain in one piece. Granted, she was a brand new ship four years ago, the best Starfleet could offer at the time, but still… she was not meant for this sort of mission."

"And yet, you still want to return, despite the fact that you would be so far from Earth again that you could barely hope to reach home, don't you?" Sheridan asked quietly.

Janeway nodded. "We must. That's home," she replied simply. "Besides, staying here would change _your_ history beyond repair. We can't risk that. Our mere presence here has interrupted your timeline, causing probably changes already, so that the timeline might need decades, if not longer, to right itself again. Getting involved, in any way, would make things a lot worse."

"Or a lot better," Sheridan said, not quite willing to give up the chance to get some more help yet. "The way things are right now, changes could mean a chance for us to win. A chance we might not have otherwise."

But Janeway shook her head. "We are only one ship, Captain – and a rather battered one at that. The risks outweigh the possible benefits in this case. We can't get involved in your war, regardless if we agree with your goals or not."

* * *

**_Voyager – Chakotay's office_**

In the meantime, aboard _Voyager_, Janeway's executive officer was just about to become _heavily_ involved in the affairs of Babylon 5, drafting not only Harry and B'Elanna for this involvement, but also Tom Paris, whose hacking skills were required to make the whole action work. Chakotay selected his own office as temporary headquarters for the search for Ayala and the surveillance of Marcus, partly because the office had surveillance monitors by default – the First Officer was supposed to know what happened aboard his ship – partly because this way he could win some time before the captain learned about Ayala's disappearance. Chakotay hoped to solve the problem before Janeway returned. The captain had enough burdens to carry as it was.

Using his recent experience with Babylon 5's computer systems, when thy had downloaded the files containing the history of this alternate Earth, Harry created a few rather… inspired overrides, based on B'Elanna's unorthodox cross-wirings, to enable Tom to hack into Garibaldi's security network. It proved harder than they had expected – apparently, the security chief of Babylon 5 was rather paranoid about hackers and placed clever traps for them – and so they made little headway, and even that only slowly.

"I wish we had Commander Data with us," Tom grumbled, fighting the stubborn system for the password. "He could simply interface with the whole thing and get in in no time."

"Well, we could ask Seven of Nine," Harry offered tentatively. "She could…"

B'Elanna shot him a dirty look. "Yeah, she could assimilate the whole station in minutes, right? Think a little, Harry – do we know whether the Collective exist in this universe at all? And if they do, do you want them to pick up her signal and come for us?"

"You are paranoid, B'Elanna," Harry pointed out mildly. Torres nodded.

"Yep. Kept me alive in the Maquis."

"Patience," Tom said through gritted teeth. "I'll get in sooner or later – it only takes some time."

"Time which we might not have," Harry riposted. Tom stopped working for a moment.

"Look, Harry," he said, forcing himself to patience. "I know you are worried about your friend. And that the Commander is worried about Ayala. I'm doing my best, okay? But if you don't let me concentrate, I might trigger a station-wide security alarm, and then you can forget your little surveillance action. So, be a nice guy and let me do this without any helpful suggestions, will you?"

Harry shut up, a little embarrassed, as Tom was right, of course. There was no way to speed up this kind of work, and Harry knew it. He was just nervous and wanted it done, as soon as possible. In order to distract him, Chakotay asked for a system check of his surveillance monitors, and they all worked in silence for about twenty minutes. After that, Tom turned with his chair and looked at them.

"I'm in," he said simply.

TBC


	16. Part 16

**STILL NOT IN KANSAS**

**by Soledad**

**Author's notes:** For disclaimer, rating, etc., see Part One.

Some of the dialogue, as before, is directly taken from the episode "Grey 17 Is Missing". The technobabble has absolute no real technical background – I've made it up as a whole.

* * *

**PART SIXTEEN **

**_Grey Sector – unnumbered level_**

Still lying low in the HQ of the EarthGov guerrillas, Gregor Ayala considered the possibilities left to him. Thanks to the silent function of his tricorder, he had documented everything that he had heard – or seen – from his hiding place. Of course, to show the evidence to Captain Sheridan, he needed to connect his useful little instrument to _Voyager_'s board computer. And for that, he needed to get out here first.

So far, he had had no luck locating the computer panel the guerrillas used to block this level from both scans and access. And even if he did, it would do him little good, since he didn't know Babylon 5's systems – nor was he much of a hacker. To hack into a foreign computer system, one that had been manipulated by a rebel group, no less, required the skills of Tom Paris.

Or those of Michael Garibaldi. During their short acquaintance, Ayala had already learnt a few things about Babylon 5's unconventional security chief. One of those things had been that Garibaldi knew very creative ways with or around computer systems. He needed to locate the rebel's main computer first, free Garibaldi second, and then they could find – or force – a way out of here together.

He briefly considered trying to get his hands on one of those black light camouflage suits. Of course, the only way to get one would be to dispose of the suit's current wearer. Ayala had no problems with killing someone for the sake of those he had sworn to protect, not even in cold blood, but the possible ramifications for the current timeline made him hesitate. Although he didn't share the usual Starfleet paranoia about getting involved with foreign affairs – besides, he didn't understand much about the scientific technobabble – even he knew that changing events in a universe not his own could be hazardous.

However, after a few moments of hesitation he decided to act nevertheless. If saving a quarter million people – among them his own shipmates – from being slaughtered by invading EarthGov troops changed history in this universe, it would be a change the innocent victims would appreciate, he decided. And if Janeway tried to throw him in the brig for it, he could always stay here. It wasn't that he had that much chance of getting home and seeing Gía and the boys again anyway.

Deciding on the most promising course of action, he checked the room again, for any hidden persons. The BLC-suits could fool the eye, but they could not fool the tricorder. The little instrument showed no human biosigns in a radius of three hundred meters – well, aside from Garibaldi and one other person, possibly the one left guarding him. The rebels had moved on to the other rooms, deeper into the unnumbered Grey level, and though Ayala would have liked to learn what else was there, he had to concentrate on his primary goals.

He sneaked around the big, haphazardly ordered room, checking for control panels that might serve as the rebels' main terminal but with no results. This was not leading anywhere, he realized. He needed to free Garibaldi first, as he was not going to find what he needed without the security chief's help.

Freeing Garibaldi was a high-risk job, of course. Along the corridors, he had no cover – the only way avoiding to be shot or captured was to shoot first, but the high-pitched whine of a PPG could give his presence and his position away. He looked around for something else he could use and saw a small piece of metal alloy – probably some piece of broken equipment – lying on the floor. He picked it up. It was surprisingly heavy, and on the broken side sharp like a razor.

Practically glued to the bulkhead, with the tricorder in his left hand and the makeshift weapon in the right one, Ayala crept in the direction the rebels had dragged the unconscious Garibaldi away. According to the tricorder readings, the next living person was some eighty meters ahead of him. Two living beings, to be more accurate. He congratulated himself for having filed Garibaldi's biosigns before; it was something he did routinely with new people, and now he could be sure he was on the right trail.

The readings indicated that the corridor would take a slight turn within five meters. That could be an advantage, especially if the guard wasn't looking in his direction. He slowed down even more, sneaking forward inch by inch, all senses on high alert. He made two meters… four… and then someone grabbed his shoulder.

* * *

**_Grey Sector – Level 16_**

Lyta Alexander had accompanied Tuvok and his security team to Grey 16. At first she had been unsure if she shouldn't follow the unknown Minbari with the murderous intentions, but she realized soon enough that there was little she could do alone. The safest and most efficient thing was to find Garibaldi, so that the security chief could organize his forces and secure the ceremony.

And finding Garibaldi was something she could help with. She was familiar with the emotional pattern of the security chief. She had never seen him, but Garibaldi usually broadcast his feeling so strongly that she couldn't help but pick up signs from him.

On those signs did she plan to focus now.

Tuvok had understood the significance of her offer at once. Nothing short a strong telepathic shielding could block a telepath from finding their target, once they knew which emotional pattern to look for. A scattering field, no matter how sophisticated, would never stop them.

Lyta stood on Grey 16, eyes closed, and tried to focus on the anger and suspicion so characteristic for Garibaldi. To her surprise, all she could feel was a faint echo of those feelings.

"He must be unconscious," she said to Tuvok. The Vulcan nodded.

"That is a definite possibility. Can you locate the direction those echoes are coming from?"

"From above," Lyta answered. "He must be somewhere above us. Probably on Level 17."

"Very Well. Let us try Level 17."

They stepped into the transport tube. Once again, Lyta focused on the echoes of the familiar emotional pattern – and lost it after a second or two."

"I've lost the trail," she admitted glumly when they reached Level 17. "I had it for about two seconds, but it's gone now."

"Curious," the Vulcan commented, unperturbed. "I do not know if your senses are keen enough to realize it, but the ride between Levels 16 and 17 took us approximately twice the time as between any other levels. This cannot be a coincidence."

"We can try an emergency stop between Grey 16 and Grey 17," officer Lou Welch, assigned to them by Zack Allen, offered. "I have the security code required to open the doors."

Tuvok inclined his head. "That is probably worth a try. I counted roughly 6.10.3 seconds between Levels 16 and 17. We go back to Grey 17, stop the cabin after three seconds – and will see if there is anything at all."

They did as he had suggested. The computer dutifully told them that there was no valid destination. Officer Welch dutifully performed the security override, and Tuvok forced the doors open with his superior Vulcan strength.

After which they all stared at the formerly unknown Grey level in disbelief.

"Well, I'll be damned," officer Welch said softly. "We've just solved the mystery of the Babylon 5 Triangle. This is where all those people have disappeared to!"

"And someone has apparently gone great lengths to conceal this place," Ensign Ashmore, one of Tuvok's security people added. "Tricorder is working again, sir. Whatever has blocked it, we have just crossed the border. We can now go and search for Ayala and Mr. Garibaldi."

"We should block the tube doors first," officer Welch suggested. "We might need a quick way out later."

Tuvok looked at Dalby, who – despite being an engineer – insisted on coming and looking for Ayala personally. "Mr. Dalby, I believe this is your area of expertise.

The hard-bitten ex-Maquis nodded. "Will do. The rest of your lot would better put on those breathing masks. Tricorder registers traces of anesthesyne gas in the air."

"That would explain Mr. Garibaldi being unconscious," Tuvok nodded, pushing the breathing mask onto his face and offering his spare one to Lyta; she was a little shocked as the adhesive seam adapted to her facial structure immediately. "Scan for lifesigns, but keep the tricorders on silent mode. We cannot know who lives here and how many they are."

"Can you locate Ayala?" Dalby asked, working on hardwiring the tube doors furiously. Tuvok picked up his own tricorder.

"There are three human lifesigns about 82.6.2 meters ahead, bearing two by nine. One of the is definitely Lieutenant Ayala – and his heart rate is quite accelerated." The Vulcan glanced at Lyta. "Please stay here with Mr. Dalby, Ms. Alexander. We shall go and check out those lifesigns. Can you still feel Mr. Garibaldi?"

Lyta nodded. "He must be close. The signals are stronger here."

"Very well," Tuvok declared, "we are going in. Standard invading pattern. Phasers on heavy stun. Do not kill anyone, unless it is absolutely unavailable. Understood?"

"Aye, sir," came the answer in unison, and Tuvok nodded.

"Let us move then."

* * *

**_Grey Sector – unnumbered level_**

Ayala reacted on pure instinct. He stooped forward and rammed his elbow into the solar plexus of whoever was standing behind him with all his considerable strength, then he sidestepped quickly, and with the same fluent move rammed the same elbow into the throat of the stumbling man. The guy went out like a light, his windpipe crushed, but alive.

Holding his tricorder in front of him, Ayala checked the entrance of Garibaldi's makeshift brig and found neither a forcefield nor alarms installed. The rebels were apparently not used to take prisoners. Which explained the mysterious disappearances in the "Babylon 5 Triangle", of which Garibaldi had spoken earlier. Ayala wondered briefly what they had made with the bodies, then turned his attention to the locking mechanism of the door.

It wasn't very complicated, at least not for someone with Ayala's lock-picking skills. In a few minutes, he got the door open and dragged the unconscious guard in with him.

He found Garibaldi lying in a corner, still out. Not having a first aid kit on him, Ayala had no other choice than try and wake the security chief with the traditional method: shaking him and slapping his face. He wished he had learned more about the stimulating of certain pressure points from Gía while they still had been married. Bajorans could work wonders that way. They had to. Forced to go with practically no medical aid for decades during the Cardassian occupation, they hadn't had much else.

Garibaldi groaned quietly as consciousness slowly returned. He felt violently sick. The worst hangover of his life – and he'd had the one or other to compare – had not felt half this bad. Without opening his eyes, he rolled to his side and threw up.

_Damn, and I wasn't even drunk_, he thought tiredly, as higher brain functions began to return.

"No, but you have breathed in enough anesthesyne gas to knock out an Allurian mammoth," the voice of Ayala replied through the fog still clouding his mind.

Damn. He had apparently spoken aloud, without meaning it. Again.

"Where….?" He croaked.

"Still on the unnamed Grey level," Ayala said. "It seems that this place has been taken over by some guerrilla troops, for quite some time. We walked right into their trap."

"Did they… get you, too?"

"Nah, I had a breathing mask with you and hid behind those boxes in the first room. Then I followed them to find you."

"How… many of them…?" Garibaldi's brain was already working on overdrive, way ahead of his still somewhat incoherent speech, creating various scenarios and escape plans. Ayala shrugged.

"I've counted eleven, so far. But there's no telling how many more might still be hiding there. We must leave and find their main computer to shut down the scattering field."

"That can take time," Garibaldi tried to sit up, slowly, very slowly, fighting back a new wave of sickness. Dry heaves were no fun, and he doubted there would still be anything left in his stomach. "The whole Grey Sector is full of industrial equipment. They could have cross-rigged the whole section, with decentralized command modules. That's what I would do if I were them."

"Then we'll have to find every one of those modules and shoot them to debris," Ayala replied, a little impatiently. "Look, we must leave here, before they check on you. Can you stand up at all?"

"I can try," gritting his teeth, Garibaldi let Ayala help him to his feet and waited for the moment of nausea to go away. "This won't work. I can barely stand, and walking more than a few meters is out of question. We need a hiding place, till I recover."

"I'll check the nearest room," Ayala offered. "They won't look for you so close; besides, we don't have any other choices right now."

Garibaldi nodded… and regretted it at once. "All right."

Ayala was gone for a minute only. "Room's clear," he reported. "There are a few containers near the bulkhead; you can lie down behind them till you're feeling better."

Garibaldi bit his lower lip. It would be risky business to get to the next room while he still had difficulties with standing upright. But they couldn't stay here. "Let's go."

Steadying himself with an outstretched hand against the bulkhead, he began to walk to the door, cursing the after-effects of the anesthesyne gas. It was not his first encounter with the damn stuff, and every time, he had had a particularly bad reaction to it. Dr. Kyle had explained something about his rare blood chemistry, but Garibaldi had not really cared or paid attention. Knowing the reason for his allergic reaction, shared by one in a thousand humans, did not lessen the affect, after all.

He stopped at the beaten up guard's body for a moment, and his face darkened as he recognized the man. "Rishi? What's _he_ doing here? We threw him out of the station weeks ago. How did he manage to sneak back?"

"Apparently, they used something they call black light camouflage suits to smuggle their people back," Ayala peered out of the door. "All clear. You can come out."

"Easy for you to say," Garibaldi grumbled, but he did his best nevertheless.

Fortunately, the next room was only about four meters down the corridor. Ayala watched his back while he practically crept over like an invalid, then hurriedly followed him and closed the door behind them.

"These doors remind me of old history vids," the _Voyager_ officer grimaced, tossing the guard's PPG to Garibaldi. "They look like the guillotines of the French revolution."

Garibaldi grinned weakly. "So? Does that mean you have no pressure doors on that ship of yours?"

"Of course we have them," Ayala rolled his eyes, "but at least they are not vertical." He paused, than changed the topic back. "So, how well do you know that guy, back in the other room? What's his name…?"

"Rishi? Well enough. Guy served under me for almost three years. Then he chose to join Nightwatch. Damn organization recruited half of my people. That's why we need the help of the Narns to secure the station."

"Was there among them a man called Armstrong?" Ayala asked. That earned him a sharp look.

"How can you know that? Yep, Armstrong was the resident Nightwatch leader."

"Apparently, he still is," Ayala said. "I've just seen him in that front room. But my guess is, the true boss is someone else."

"Really? Who?"

"A young civilian called Biggs. They seemed to respect him very much."

Garibaldi's eyes widened, hearing that name. "Biggs? As in Malcolm Biggs, representative of the Homeguard?"

Ayala shrugged. "Dunno, they just called him Mr. Biggs. Why? Do you know him?"

Garibaldi nodded grimly. "If he is who I think he is, then we are having a bigger problem than I thought," he replied. "If Biggs took the risk of returning to Babylon 5, then he is after Ivanova. We have to get out of here and warn her."

* * *

**_Grey Sector – unnumbered level_**

Kenneth Dalby was having difficulties. He was a good engineer – working for B'Elanna Torres for four years had rubbed off inevitably – so hard-wiring a turbolift… _nah, these are called transport tubes_, he reminded himself… should have been no problem for him. And yet the strange system kept bouncing back stubbornly, every time when he hoped to have finally blocked it.

That could not be a coincidence. There was some very clever programming at work, with highly adaptive backups. Someone had somehow cross-rigged the control system into an endless-loop. Whenever he installed a block, the connection simply re-initialized itself on a different pathway. Dalby began to sweat profoundly under his mask. It was very bothersome, but he didn't dare to remove it; who knew when he would trigger the release of the anesthesyne gas accidentally?

The red-haired woman was no help. She stood alert, listening telepathically for clues that might tell her what was going on deeper in the previously unknown section. She paid the sweating, swearing engineer no attention.

Lyta was analyzing the random thoughts and emotions of various people closed in with them in this section. She briefly touched Tuvok's remarkably organized, well-shielded mind, thankful for the fact that Vulcans didn't need to be in direct line of sight to reach another telepath mentally. It was strangely… comforting to know that she wasn't alone here.

She could feel Garibaldi again. He must have regained consciousness and was still relatively close. Without being in the line of sight, she couldn't read anyone's thoughts, but she could catch vague impressions of the feelings of the people who lived here, vague like footprints in dry sand.

She didn't like opening her mind this wide. It was dangerous, as it made difficult to shut out strong emotions – like Mr. Dalby's anger and frustration. And it numbed her other senses. But she wanted to learn the secrets of this hidden section of Babylon 5. It could come handy later.

She wanted to close her eyes. It would have made easier to focus on the various emotional patterns somewhere deeper in the unknown section. But she knew she could not afford it. The _Voyager_ engineer was busy fighting the control system, could not look out for himself. She had to watch out for him.

The wave of cold triumph hit her at the same moment as the searing pain. Something that felt like white-hot iron stabbed her in the left shoulder, barely missing her heart. She faltered, sank to her knees and fell to the floor.

Ken Dalby looked up at the high-pitched whine of the energy offload – right into the muzzle of a PPG.

* * *

"Commander," Ensign Ashmore stopped on his track, "tricorder registers the firing of an energy weapon."

"Where?"

"Behind us," Ashmore frowned. "Only one shot, it seems… so far."

His team-mate, Crewman Foster, paled visibly. "If they got Dalby, we might never get out of here again."

"Calm down," Tuvok ordered, unmoved as always. "Split up. Ashmore, Foster, Molina, you with me. Trumari, Nozawa, you go back and check out what the shooting was about. Go."

Trumari, a short, wiry Bajoran and Nozawa, formerly the aikido champion of Starfleet Academy, nodded wordlessly and turned back.

TBC


	17. Part 17

**STILL NOT IN KANSAS**

**by Soledad**

**Author's notes:** For disclaimer, rating, etc., see Part One.

Some of the dialogue, as before, is directly taken from the episode "Grey 17 Is Missing".

Warning: there are certain practices mentioned considering Centauri society that might be disturbing for some readers.

* * *

**PART SEVENTEEN **

**_Red Sector – Fresh Air Restaurant_**

"We Centauri live our lives for appearances: position, status, title. These are the things by which we define ourselves, "Vir explained. "Consequently, most powerful and respected males not only have several wives but usually one or two young male consorts – not children, in that the law knows no exception, but no full adults either. They usually are the equivalent of 16-24-year-old humans. It's considered quite an honour, actually, and they are released from service and married off after reaching full maturity, to the daughters of important allies to strengthen the positions of their masters and their own family…"

He was enjoying himself enormously. Usually, outworldlers found Centaury customs… strange, at best. The faint of heart often found them outrageous, alienating or downright disgusting. The lady officer from _Voyager_, however, had listened to him with fascination.

Of course, the fact that Ms Wildman was an exobiologist might have played some part in her curiosity. But she also showed a genuine interest for Vir's personal history, and _that_ was more than surprising. _Nobody_ had _ever_ showed any interest for Vir's past.

Naturally, he was careful to keep details that humans might have found disgusting to himself. There was the little girl to consider, after all. Who knew how much she would understand from their discussion? But explaining the intricacies of Centauri society that resulted in him growing up in Uncle Jeraddo's house seemed harmless enough – as long as he skipped some details and phrased his information carefully.

The blonde woman gave him a knowing look. "Is this what happened to you? You mentioned your recent betrothal…"

Vir's face acquired a rather interesting shade of purple. "Well, yes… and no, not entirely," he shot an uneasy look at Naomi who seemed completely focused on her food. "You see, as I said, having a male consort is a sign of high status for a Centauri noble… unless… unless, of course, they are related. In _that_ case, it's considered a… a… a shame. And if it comes out, well, then… then the evidence must be removed… in a sense."

He trailed off, unable to continue. But the lady officer understood what he was trying to tell.

"So, _that_ is how you came to Babylon 5?" she asked gently. Vir nodded.

"My uncle needed me off planet, at once. And since nobody wanted a status this low, I was sent to Londo. He got the job because he had fallen in disgrace at court, too, you know."

"They whisked you off planet, although you were the one abused by your uncle?" Sam Wildman shook her head, angry but not surprised. Earth history offered enough similar examples.

Vir shrugged. "At least he didn't have me killed. I had no other relatives; it would have been easy for him to arrange for an… accident. Accidents like that happen on Centauri Prime every day."

"How come then that he arranged a marriage for you anyway?" Sam asked. "If I understand you correctly, such things are based on prestige – and you had none, had you?"

"I was ambassador on Minbar, for a short time," Vir explained. "When Londo began to gather influence – through methods I would rather not name here – he arranged that job for me, through Ambassador Delenn. The Minbari were… content with my work, and it… it seemed that my star would rise… well, as much as it could, on a post nobody else wanted. So my uncle arranged this marriage between me and Lyndisty with her mother, the Lady Drusella."

"So, does this mean that you are married now?" Sam asked, but Vir shook his head sadly.

"N-no, not anymore… I mean, we weren't officially married yet… and now there is little chance that we actually would… although she promised to wait for me… I just… I just don't know if it's still possible… or if I'd want it, even if it _were_ possible… I mean…"

"Vir," Sam said patiently; they had reached first name basis about an hour ago. "You are babbling."

Vir's face acquired that interesting shade of purple again. "I… I guess I do, don't I?"

"Yes, you do. Now, why don't you tell me this story as it happened? Preferably in chronological order?"

* * *

**_Grey Sector – unnumbered level_**

Ken Dalby looked up at the high-pitched whine of the energy offload – right into the muzzle of a PPG. Behind the weapon, he saw the disgustingly satisfied face of a young, dark-haired man, apparently a human. And between the two of them Lyta Alexander lay like a broken doll, blood seeping from her injured shoulder in an alarmingly quick rate.

Glaring right into the muzzle of a weapon was nothing new for Ken Dalby. He had done so uncounted times as a Maquis freedom fighter, usually with a Cardassian or two (or more) on the other end of said weapon. He was used to situations like this. He knew how to stall for time, how to bargain for his life, negotiate, make fake promises he never intended to keep, just to distract his attacker until help arrived.

And he _knew_ that help was not far away. If Tuvok's sensitive Vulcan ears had not picked up the offload of the PPG, the tricorders certainly would have. Standard Starfleet procedure demanded that the incident be investigated, and Tuvok held Starfleet regulations in high esteem. It was only a matter of time. All Ken needed to do was keeping the young man with the weapon occupied.

Unfortunately, the red-haired woman bleeding to her death didn't have much time left. Dalby, having had a crash course in field medicine, could clearly see _that_.

What made him even more anxious was the expression on that handsome face behind the weapon. It made him itch with nervosity, which he'd never felt when facing armed Cardassians. The spoonheads were cold, heartless, calculating bastards, and cruel beyond belief; if anyone, Ken knew that. But at least with the Cardassians one always knew what to expect. Usually the worst. But they were a known quality.

This young man, however, was clearly mad. His dark eyes glittered manically, with the fanatism of a religious – or political – zealot, and the sneer on his face was as far from sane as humanly possible, while still capable of aiming a weapon at someone in a professional manner.

"Lookie, lookie," he said in a soft, singsong voice," whom do we have here? One of the new best buddies of Captain Sheridan, no doubt. You shouldn't be here, you know…"

"Yeah, I know," Dalby nodded sourly. "Believe me, I'd _love_ to be somewhere else. Far, far away from here. Too bad nobody ever asks me where I'd like to go…"

"And what is our reluctant visitor doing here, then?" the singsong voice asked, the weapon swaying a little in the young man's hand. Dalby began to sweat; a twitching finger on the fire button was definitely not a good thing. Especially when the weapon was held by a madman.

"I'm trying to block the 'lift doors," he replied thoughtfully, as he had nothing to lose by telling the truth, "so that I can get back into the cabin and the hell out of here. Care to help me?"

For a moment he was afraid he'd overestimated his luck, as those slightly mad eyes filled with anger.

"Our visitor is a funny person," the voice was harder now, more annoyed than playful; maybe the guy wasn't completely mad, after all. "But his jokes are lame. What should we do with him, I wonder?"

Dalby caught a flash of black and gold behind the madman and forced himself to look straight at his enemy, or else he'd have revealed the approach of his friends. He needed the young man to focus on him… but it was risky business.

"Look," he said calmly (a _lot_ more calmly than he actually felt); "are you going to shoot me now or not? 'Coz if you're not, we should call a med team or whatnot. In case you haven't noticed, that lady here is bleeding to death."

"Let her," the pleasant face of the young man contorted in unexpected hatred. "She's a filthy telepath who keeps poking around in other people's heads. They are everywhere, swarming like cockroaches, sniffling… But when we are done, they'll be all eradicated."

"So, you are some sort of elite cleansing force, huh?" Dalby said, desperately trying to ignore Trumari who was snaking up behind the madman. "Killing all those in your way, establishing your great new order, aren't you?"

The question seemed to surprise the other man. "You've heard of us? The Homeguard?"

"Nah," Dalby replied grimly. "I never actually _heard_ of your lot. But I know your kind well enough. I've fought people like you and your cronies all my life. They killed my family. Set our farm to fire. Hunted us like animals, for sport. All in the name of their wonderful new order. You think you can frighten me, young snot? I've killed Cardassians twice your size with my bare hands. Do you know how hard it is, to throttle a Cardassian? They have scaled skin, and their neck is corded, from the collarbone up to their ears. The muscle cords are thick like three of your fingers together. In order to kill them, you must know exactly where to put the pressure, 'coz their necks are too thick for you to encircle with both hands completely. So, you have to grab them frontally, between the neck cords and crush their windpipe…"

The young man listened to Dalby's detailed description with morbid fascination. He completely forgot to watch his surroundings, and it took him by surprise when Trumari finally got in arm's reach, grabbed his wrist and wrestled the PPG from his hand. At the same moment, Dalby leaped to his feet and rammed his knee into the groin of the guy with brutal force. Trumari caught the swaying man and knocked him out with the blunt end of the PPG.

Then he looked at Dalby and nodded with a feral grin. This had nothing to do with their recent training in Starfleet methods and tactical procedures. This was a purely Maquis operation: quick, dirty and extremely efficient. Just like in the old days.

Dalby returned the Bajoran's grin and squatted down to Lyta. He examined her injury as well as it was possible without a medkit… and swore shortly but suggestively in Klingon. All those years serving with Torres rubbed off after a while.

"How is she doing?" Nozawa, coming up behind Trumari, asked.

"Not well," Dalby replied. "She's losing a lot of blood. We'll have to get her out of here."

"That could be a problem," Trumari looked at the elevator pointedly. The doors had been shot during their short fight and the opening mechanism lay in pieces on the floor. Most pieces had been pulled out by Dalby himself.

"There has to be another way out," Nozawa said. "No guerrilla group would set up home in a rat trap with only one exit. Especially since they don't have transporters."

"Maybe our friend here can help," Trumari kicked the unconscious man in the ribs to wake him. "I'm sure I can make him cooperate…"

"I wish Tuvok and the others could shut this scattering field down," Dalby murmured, stripping down to the waist and tearing up his undershirt to apply a makeshift bandage to Lyta's wound. "Dammit, I can't stop the bleeding! We must beam her out of here, directly to sickbay. The EMH is her only chance – I doubt their doctors here could save her."

The Bajoran nodded grimly, and before Nozawa could stop him, touched his comm badge. "Trumari to Tuvok."

"Ensign, you were supposed to keep comm silence," the voice of the Vulcan answered immediately.

"No time, sir," Trumari answered sharply. "We have a critically wounded woman here, who needs the EMH and she needs him now. Dalby says you must shut down the scattering field somehow. The elevator is gone, so we have to beam her out of here, preferably five minutes ago."

A moment of silence, then, "I see. Stand by, Ensign. We've just found Lieutenant Ayala and Mr. Garibaldi. Maybe they can be of assistance. Try to find another exit in the meantime. Tuvok out."

"You heard the man," Trumari looked at Nozawa. "Scan the bulkheads for maintenance tubes or whatever you can find. I'll wake up this guy and talk him nicely into helping us.

* * *

Tuvok was very un-Vulcan-like relieved to find Ayala unharmed. Garibaldi was another matter entirely, of course. But they needed the local security chief as the only person familiar with Babylon 5's computer system, if they wanted to shut down the damn scattering field.

Ayala and Garibaldi had disabled several computer interfaces already, narrowing down the possibilities of the cleverly cross-rigged internal system to reboot itself. Dalby, too, had done a nice amount of damage while trying to cross-wire the elevator controls. But the whole thing was still much too complicated, and they still hadn't the faintest idea where the central control could be.

"We are going nowhere like this," Ayala said, teeth gritting in frustration. "But we do have that unconscious guy back in the room where Garibaldi was imprisoned. Tuvok could meld with him and get us the information we need."

"If he has the information," Ensign Foster said pessimistically. Ayala shrugged.

"They aren't that many here. Which means each of them has to know how to get in and out and through the scattering field. It's worth a shot anyway."

Tuvok raised an eyebrow. "Mr. Ayala, surely you know how Vulcans think about a forced mind meld."

"Not really, sir," Ayala replied, "and frankly, I don't even care. Someone is dying over there, and we haven't any other way out, either. With all due respect for your ethics, sir, they are just not as important as the lives of us all… and those on the whole station, which would be seriously endangered, should we be unable to pass the information about these rebels here along."

Tuvok hesitated for a moment. His whole being, all he had been taught in his long life, rebelled against the idea of forcible taking the information they needed from the mind of an unconscious man. But he also knew that he'd have to do it. His moral dilemma could wait. Lyta Alexander could not.

He knew the injured woman couldn't be anyone else but Lyta. He had personally ordered her to remain with Dalby… and he could feel the faint telepathic contact between them fading away. He was responsible for what had happened to Lyta – she wouldn't have come down here without him. He had to try helping her.

"Very well," he said, resigned. "Lead the way."

* * *

Chakotay was sitting in his office, in a valiant effort to distract himself with long overdue paperwork. He decided against returning to the bridge; he'd only make everyone nervous. The crew was used to see him as the solid rock in the storm, and showing his agitation – which he couldn't hide very well right now – wouldn't help things. It was better to let Rollins play captain and stay here with the utterly boring reports.

When his comm unit finally beeped, he almost jumped off his seat. Then he almost jumped a second time, when he recognized Greg's voice. "Ayala to Chakotay."

"Chakotay here. Greg, are you all right?"

"I am," the voice of his friend answered, "but we've run into a bit of trouble here. We have wounded, Chak… one of them critical. They need to be beamed to sickbay. Now."

"You know what the Captain said about the transporters, don't you?"

"Yeah, but I also know what she said about emergencies. We have one dying woman who doesn't have the time we are wasting right now, Chak. You are in charge right now. You can do this."

"And she can have my hide afterwards," Chakotay murmured, but he know as well as Ayala that they had no choice. "All right, Greg. Do as you see it fit; I'll inform the transporter room."

"See you in sickbay," Ayala replied and signed off.

* * *

Dr. Lillian Hobbs had barely begun her late shift when C&C called her.

"Doctor, you have an urgent message from _Voyager_," Technician Robertson told her. "From Commander Chakotay."

Dr. Hobbs frowned. That couldn't mean any good. Sure, she'd hoped that Chakotay would contact her again, but it wasn't an emergency call she'd expected.

"I'll take it in my office," she answered to C&C and hurried over to her – well, actually Franklin's – inner sanctuary. Robertson acknowledged and put the call through to the comm unit of the office.

Chakotay's face was positively grim on the small vidscreen. "I'm sorry to bother you when you're on duty, doctor," he said, "but we need your help. Can you come over to _Voyager_'s sickbay? It's really urgent."

"Well, yes, at the moment there's nothing to do," Lillian answered in surprise. "What happened?"

"I can't talk about it. Not on this open channel," Chakotay said. "You'll have to come over and see it yourself. Oh, one more thing… do you have any records about Ms Alexander?"

"Lyta? Sure, I have her whole medical file at my disposal."

"Good. Bring it along. You'll need it."

"Will do," Lillian began to feel something like anxiety. This didn't sound good. This didn't sound good at all. "Anything else?"

"Yes. Keep this connection open. Tell me when you have the file. We'll beam you over; nobody needs to know about this. Not yet, anyway."

"_Beam_ me over?" Dr. Hobbs replied, nervously. "What are you talking about?"

"Lillian," Chakotay's voice was low and patient. "Do you trust me?"

The question surprised her. "Well... yes, of course I trust you. Why do you ask?"

"Then believe me if I say you that it won't harm you. Are you alone?"

"Yes…"

"Good. Tell me when you're done."

The only thing Lillian understood was that Lyta might be in trouble – probably sick or injured, if they needed her medical file. The situation was most likely critical enough for the _Voyager_ people to take her to their own sickbay, to that wondrous medical hologram. But they still needed Lillian's help. That was enough. She'll ask for details later.

Downloading Lyta's medical file into a data crystal was a matter of moments. She added the confidential ones that Dr. Franklin kept in a password-protected data block as well. One couldn't know what would be needed.

"Chakotay," he said, a little uncertainly. "I'm finished here."

"Good, stay where you are and don't move," Chakotay's voice became muffled as he most likely turned away from the comm unit. "Transporter room, do you have her coordinates?"

"Aye, sir," an unfamiliar female voice answered him. "Transporter lock in place."

"Very well. Beam her directly to sickbay."

There was a tingling sensation, then a brief moment of disorientation – and Lillian Hobbs found herself standing in the middle of _Voyager_'s sickbay.

TBC


	18. Part 18

**STILL NOT IN KANSAS**

**by Soledad**

**Author's notes:** For disclaimer, rating, etc., see Part One.

Some of the dialogue, as before, is directly taken from the episode "Grey 17 Is Missing". According to the "Lower Decks" website, office space is on Deck 1. primary hull. As the site doesn't give the exact location of the security area, I placed Tuvok's office there.

* * *

**PART EIGHTEEN**

**_Voyager – Sickbay_**

Lillian Hobbs looked around in _Voyager_'s sickbay in awe. The MedLabs of Babylon 5 were equipped with the most advanced medical technology know on Earth, but _Voyager_'s technology was at least a century ahead of theirs. She saw the limp form of Lyta Alexander lying on one of those strange-looking beds, her face deathly pale. On two other beds lay two unconscious men in civilian clothes, both of them vaguely familiar. And on a fourth one sat a grim and apparently rather nauseous Michael Garibaldi, undergoing some treatment.

Lillian recognized the short, balding man in the blue uniform as the holographic doctor of _Voyager_. She had seen him on the vidscreen a few times and found that for a hologram, the EMH gad rather irritable – and irritating – manners. The technology that made a hologram act like a real person of flesh and blood was still beyond her understanding, but after having heard Marcus' enthusiastic reports about the holodeck she simply accepted that it was possible.

Noticing her arrival, the Holodoc pressed the instrument he was treating Garibaldi with in the hand of a blond young man.

"Continue the treatment, Mr. Paris. I assume you know how to do this by now?"

Tom Paris rolled his eyes. "Yeah, doc, after nearly four years as your sidekick one would think that I can use the simplest medical instruments,"

"One _would_ think, indeed," the hologram replied acerbically, and then he turned to Lillian. "Have you brought me the medical file of Ms Alexander?"

Lillian handed him the data crystal. "Everything is here."

That earned her an irritated look. "And what, by the sandals of Hippocrates, am I supposed to do with this… thing? _Our_ computers work with bioneural circuitry, not with _crystals_."

He spat the last word as an insult, and Lillian was truly at a loss what could be wrong with data crystals. Besides, they _needed_ the information stored in that crystal, if they wanted to save Lyta.

"Perhaps I can be of assistance," an icy voice said, and a tall, curvaceous blonde woman in a form-hugging, silver jumpsuit stepped forth. "Let me assimilate the data first."

To Lillian's stunned disbelief, she extended an elastic metallic tube from the exoskeleton that covered her hand. The tube penetrated the data crystal, still held in the doctor's hand, without any visible effort. The blonde closed her huge, doll-like blue eyes for a moment, then nodded.

"It is all right, doctor. You can treat the wound safely. The patient has no vital implants in the damaged part of her body. I'll download the data into your diagnostic computer."

She pulled the access tube back from the crystal, made a half-turn and inserted it into the surface of the complicated electronic equipment next to the examination table. "Download complete," she announced, only seconds later. The tube withdrew into the exoskeleton again.

Lillian stared at her in utter fascination. "Are you a Vicor?" she asked.

The tall blonde raised an eyebrow – the other one was more or less covered by some cranial implant and looked back at her with cool, scientific interest.

"I am Borg," she said as an explanation and walked out on his high-heels with the impersonal elegance of a ballet dancer.

That statement said nothing to Lillian, of course. "What is a Borg?" she asked, more than a little confused.

"I'll tell you, if you explain me what a Vicor is," Chakotay offered. "Later, when the doctor is done." He paused, then added tentatively. "By dinner perhaps? Are we still on a date the day after tomorrow?"

"It depends," Lillian answered softly. "Do you still want to?"

After a moment of hesitation Chakotay shrugged. "To tell the truth… yeah, I still do. What about 2100? I'll have to finish some overdue reports first."

Lillian nodded. "Deal. I'll have much to ask. But right now, I need to assist your doctor."

* * *

**_Red Sector – Fresh Air Restaurant _**

"And so when it came out that I used my position on Minbar to smuggle Narn refugees off-planet and into safety, I was re-called immediately," Vir finished his long and extremely detailed story. "The Lady Drusella nullified the marriage contract and Lyndisty returned to Centauri Prime on the same day. What's even worse, Londo had to call in several favours to save me and to cover my trail. I... I was supposed to _help_ him, to take care of him – he… he doesn't take care of himself properly, you know – and instead I cost him a lot…" he shook his head regretfully.

Sam smiled. "You like your boss, don't you?"

Vir tilted his head to one side thoughtfully. "_Like_ is probably not the right word for it, Samantha. Londo can be – well, he usually _is_ – irritating, selfish, manipulating, insulting, and sometimes downright rude. But, unlike other people at court, in the heart of his hearts he is not evil. Not really. All he cares for is Centauri Prime, not his own interests. E-even if his… his _methods_ are, well, questionable at times."

"So, you _do_ like him," Sam repeated, still smiling. Vir shrugged, a little embarrassed.

"In a way, perhaps," he admitted with a blush; he looked cute with purplish cheeks. "I… I wish I could help him somehow. He… he is about to fall from grace again, and that… that would be terrible for our people. He is one of the very few at court who still _have_ a conscience. Even if they usually choose to ignore it,"

"But why is he losing influence again?" Sam asked.

"He… he sought out the false allies, I'm afraid," Vir sighed. "And he thought he could get rid of them when he no longer needed them. But they simply turned to his old enemies at court… _very_ powerful enemies, who have a great influence over the new Emperor. They have been trying to push one of their lackeys into Londo's position for _years_. So far, Londo has been able to outsmart them, because the old Emperor actually liked him… to a certain extent. But now… And the fact that he still hasn't been able to arrange a private meeting with your captain isn't helping."

"I don't understand," Sam frowned. "We are just one ship, lost in a strange universe. What could a meeting with Captain Janeway possibly mean for your people?"

"You are an unknown factor," Vir replied seriously. "In case you haven't realized, every power represented on Babylon 5 has sought contact to you. The Minbari have succeeded: your captain is visiting Ambassador Delenn in this moment."

"How do you know…?"

"Sam, please. I'm a diplomatic attaché. I do have my sources. And I can use Londo's sources if necessary. It's my job to know such things. So, the Minbari have succeeded. The humans have succeeded – your first move was to establish contact with Captain Sheridan. The Vorlons don't count, as they have been behaving eccentrically, ever since Kosh first came to Babylon 5. The Narns, once the fourth major power in this sector, are no independent world any longer – we… we took care of _that_. So, we are the ones who still haven't set up a proper contact with your people. Can you imagine what it means for Londo? His adversaries at court use this to prove the Emperor that he doesn't represent our interests the way he should."

"Would they call him back, because such a minor failure?" Sam was surprised.

"On Centauri Prime, there are no _minor_ failures," Vir sighed. "And if Londo can't show success, and soon, they _will_ call him back. And _that_ would be fatal, not for Londo alone but for Babylon 5 as well."

"Aren't you exaggerating a little?" Sam asked, doubtfully. "What possible consequences could a personnel change on the Centaury Embassy have for Babylon 5?"

Vir hesitated a little. He wasn't supposed to talk about such things, especially not to someone whom he barely knew, but if he managed to make this kind lady understand, maybe that would open for Londo an opportunity.

"Look," he said in a low, barely audible voice, "the… powers Londo used to be allied to, are, well, very strong. Captain Sheridan has been fighting them for some time, and still doesn't seem to have any idea how to beat them without the help of the Vorlons. Londo… he genuinely _likes_ a lot of people on Babylon 5 and wouldn't betray the station to these… these enemies. Anyone else in his position would not hesitate to do so."

There was a long silence between them, while Sam tried to absorb the enormity of the information she had been given. This was way above her league. She was a junior science officer, not a politician or a member of the command staff. But it seemed that at the moment she was the only one who could at least _try_ to do something in this matter.

"I seriously doubt that I could change the captain's mind about meeting Ambassador Mollari," she finally said. "But perhaps _you_ can. You have helped our people recently, and your brave act helping the Narns would give your words credit."

"Believe me, I tried to get an audience by your captain repeatedly," Vir sighed. "That first officer of hers always sidestepped rather nicely."

"Meeting Captain Janeway is something I can help with," Sam offered. "We are allowed to invite people from the station to _Voyager_ in a private fashion. I'll organize a visit for you for the day after tomorrow, and I'll see that you meet the captain… by 'accident'."

"You would do that?" Vir looked at her in awe. "Why would you care?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't want the station in danger; that would mean endangering our ship as well, and the safety of my daughter is very important for me. She's the only one I have. Besides, I might not know you well, but I have the impression that you are a good person. You deserve your chance."

"I… I don't know how to thank you, Samantha. This… this is…"

"Don't thank me yet. All I can do is to organize a chance meeting. It's up to you to persuade Captain Janeway."

"I know," Vir nodded, almost giddy with relief. "A chance is all I ask for."

* * *

**_Voyager – Sickbay_**

The EMH called up the diagnostic arc above Lyta's biobed and started working on her injury, shutting off anyone else in sickbay. Being a hologram gave him the advantage to actually be able to do that.

"There are some… anomalies in Ms Alexander's biodata," he said to Dr. Hobbs in a very convincingly distracted manner. He couldn't really be distracted, of course, but the personality subroutines did a very good work to make the impression. "Isn't she supposed to be human? And her current status and her medical history seem to contradict each other."

"I know," Lillian answered with a sigh. "This is something we don't understand, either. Nobody really knows what happened to her on the Vorlon homeworld – she won't speak about it."

"What are these… implants Seven was talking about?" the doctor studied the readings of his diagnostic computer for a few moments. "I see… It seems that she has… _gills_, aside from perfectly normal, functioning lungs… and they don't look like implants, actually. They look as if they had grown naturally, making her a water-breather as well as an air-breather. And you are telling me this happened during the recent years?"

Lillian shrugged. "Fact is, she didn't have them when she came to Babylon 5 for the first time. Or for the second time, for that matter. She used to be the perfectly normal, average human being… well, aside from the fact that she is a sixth generation telepath. But when she returned from the Vorlons, she was already like this. We can't even start to understand what might have happened to her. This is all way beyond our medical knowledge and technology."

"None of the physicians with whose knowledge I am programmed have ever seen anything like this," the holodoctor agreed. "Fortunately, as Seven said, the shot seems to only have damaged… erm… original areas of her body. Nothing that we can't fix, although she'll be quite weak for some time."

* * *

Not wanting to stand in the doctors' way, Chakotay walked over to the other biobeds, looking down at the beaten-up, unconscious men.

"And just who are these people here?" he asked with a frown. Nozawa, left behind by Tuvok to keep an eye on the captives, could only offer a laconic shrug.

"They both used to serve in my security section," Garibaldi nodded his thanks to Paris and got off the biobed carefully. "This one," he pointed with his finger at the younger one, "was my aide for more than a year. Until he sold himself to EarthGov and shot me in the back. Literally. I lay in coma for weeks afterwards."

"And they guy still runs around freely?" Chakotay arched an inquisitive eyebrow. Garibaldi made a sour face.

"EarthGov jumped in before we could have spaced him. Got him 'taken into custody' and brought back to Earth. Back then, we were still part of EarthForce, and so we couldn't do a thing against it."

"Bout you can _now_, can't you?" Chakotay asked. "You aren't under Earth's jurisdiction anymore."

"Oh, trust me, I'm planning to do many things to this guy, none of which would be pleasant," Garibaldi replied grimly. "But first we'll have to hunt down his buddies on Grey… whatever Grey level that should be called. And for that, I'll need your help, Commander."

"_My_ help?" Chakotay replied in surprise. "What could I possibly do to help you?"

"Well, for starters, you could keep these guys in your brig," Garibaldi nodded towards the still unconscious rebels. "After we've found a whole level in Grey sector of which we'd never known for years, I'm not sure how secure our brig actually is. If there are any hidden access tunnels, trap doors, whatever. We'll have to scan the whole security area, inch by inch."

"That makes sense," Chakotay agreed. "We can keep them, all right; when you as the head of station security make an official request."

"I do."

"Very well. I'll make an entry in the ship's logs, that'll make it official. What else?"

"I'd like to have a long talk with your Lieutenant Ayala. Preferable here, where we can't be monitored from Babylon 5."

"What for?"

"I was unconscious, most of the time, while captured. But Gregor was listening to those guys for hours. He's already told me a few things, but I need every little detail he can remember. I have reason to assume that Commander Ivanova might be in particular danger."

Chakotay thought about it for a moment.

"Why don't you go up to Tuvok's office?" he then offered. "Greg's already here, filing his report – the two of you can add the details together. I'm sure Tuvok would be interested in the background of all these events."

"Sounds good," Garibaldi nodded," save one little detail: how do I find Mr. Tuvok's office?"

"I'll see that you do," Chakotay grinned and touched his comm badge. "Chakotay to Ayala."

"Go on," Ayala's calm voice answered.

"Greg, I'm sending Mr. Garibaldi over to you. See that you file a full report about _everything_ that happened while you were missing. A _very_ detailed report, understood?"

"Sure I do. Just send him up to our deck; I'll meet him at the turbolift. And Chak…"

"Yes?"

"I think _you_ should come up to the bridge, too. The captain has just come back... and she's not happy. Ayala out."

Chakotay, too, deactivated his comm badge and sighed. He knew the captain wouldn't be happy with their actions – his and Tuvok's. She took the non-intervention policy of Starfleet very seriously… too seriously, sometimes. Well, it was better to face her now and bring the confrontation behind him.

"Come with me, Mr. Garibaldi," he said in resignation. "We'll be heading the same deck, so we can as well go together. Paris, inform me when the Ms Alexander regains consciousness. The captain might want to talk to her as well."

* * *

**_Deck 1 – Captain's Ready Room _**

When Chakotay entered the captain's ready room, he already found Tuvok there. Waiting. The Vulcan sat ramrod-straight, his face carefully neutral, but Chakotay had learned to read the many non-expressions Vulcans could display, while the changes were too subtle to read for anyone but those who knew them well.

The current non-expression on Tuvok's face clearly signaled to Chakotay that Ayala had been right. The captain was _not_ happy. With either of them.

"Commander," she greeted her XO evenly, "how good of you to join us. I was just about to call you."

Chakotay winced inwardly. In recent times, the captain only addressed him by his rank when she was truly furious.

"I came as soon as I heard that you're back, Captain," was all he answered.

"How convenient," Janeway leaned back in her seat, her eyes cold with anger. "So, would you like to tell me why did half of my command staff go berserk, running around on Babylon 5, armed to the teeth, shooting and beating up people, while I was making a diplomatic visit by the most important alien ambassador?"

The two men exchanged uncomfortable looks. Why they had well been within the borders of their authority, according to regulations they _should_ have informed the captain firs. That much was true. Janeway had every reason to be furious with them.

"The Commander had nothing to do with the security detail being sent to Babylon 5," Tuvok finally said. "In fact, he did not even know about it in advance. I acted within my own area of responsibility. Mr. Allen from station security asked for our help with the search for their missing chief of security. And as our Mr. Ayala had gone missing with Mr. Garibaldi, I was more than willing to grant Mr. Allen's request."

"And the thought to inform _me_ first never occurred to you, right?"

"On the contrary, Captain. That was my very first instinct. But at the moment, it seemed to be a simple search-and-rescue mission, and I believed that it would be over before you returned from Ambassador Delenn."

"Well, where _that_ part is considered, you were right," Janeway looked at Chakotay. "I am still surprised that you played along, Commander."

"I wasn't informed, either," Chakotay reminded her matter-of-factly. "But I have to admit, Captain, that I would have played along, had Mr. Tuvok asked me. Station security asked for our help. One of our people was missing. As I see it, we had every justification to act."

"Justification… or excuse?" Janeway asked softly. "Does this also justify the use of the transporter, several times, despite the fact that I have specifically forbidden it?"

"No, it does not," Chakotay admitted bluntly. "But frankly, Captain, should I have to choose again between keeping a piece of our technology confidential or saving a life, I'd chose the latter, every time. Ms Alexander was bleeding to her death, our people were in danger and had no other way out – I was not going to endanger them any more, if I could rescue them."

"So, this is how we are going to handle things in the future?" Janeway asked. "Ignoring the rules and regulations of Starfleet, whenever they are inconvenient? Do I have to remind you – both of you – that we are in a universe here that is not our own? That we have to be three times as careful as we usually are?"

Chakotay shook his head tiredly. "Kathryn, I do understand why you want to stick to regulations as much as possible, and believe me, I even agree with you – in most cases."

"Just not in this particular one," Janeway supplied, her voice slightly bitter. "How many more will come yet?"

"I don't know," Chakotay replied honestly. "But I do know that you made me your first officer to have someone to rely on. Had you wanted a mindless puppet, you'd have never chosen me."

"True enough," Janeway nodded. "The question is: _can_ I still rely on you? On either of you? I won't lie to you; I'm not happy with what's just happened, and I'd be even less happy, should this happen again."

"I can understand that," Chakotay sighed. "But you see, this isn't that different from the Delta Quadrant here. It may not be our universe, but the fact that we are lost is the same on both places. I don't say that we should violate the Prime Directive at every whim of our hearts, that we should get involved in everything that's going on in this universe, on this particular place, but we won't be able to avoid every connection. We _are_ here – that's something we can't change. We'll have to make the best of it."

"Oh, I agree with _that_," Janeway replied slowly. "I'm just not sure we mean the same thing when we decide what's _best_."

"No, we probably don't," Chakotay agreed. "But we can always try to find a middle way."

"Maybe," Janeway rose. "Which still doesn't change the fact that you – both of you – should have consulted me before you acted. This is a breach of protocol I don't take lightly, gentlemen. A reprimand will be noted in your files. Dismissed."

TBC


	19. Part 19

**STILL NOT IN KANSAS**

**by Soledad**

**Author's notes:** For disclaimer, rating, etc., see Part One.

Some of the dialogue, as before, is directly taken from the episode "Grey 17 Is Missing".

My apologies for the slow update: my muse abandoned me for a while.

**PART NINETEEN**

**_Voyager – Captain's Quarters_**

Captain Janeway spent a sleepless night in her quarters. After having thoroughly investigated both Tuvok and Ayala, she just sat in her darkened living-room for hours, wondering just how things could have spun out of control so quickly. When the stimulated morning arrived, she still didn't have a satisfying answer.

She was contemplating the choice to go to the Mess Hall and give Neelix' cooking another try (although, after more than three years, she'd all but given up on the chance to find there anything that'd actually be palatable) against spending some rations on a replicated breakfast. Neither choice seemed particularly attractive at the moment. Hell, not even _coffee_ sounded attractive!

Which was a very bad sign indeed.

The beeping of the comm system spared her the decision – as so many times before.

"Captain," the voice of Harry Kim said – did the kid never sleep? " There's a call for you, from Captain Sheridan. Should I dispatch it to your quarters?"

"Please, do," Janeway replied, switching on her small screen.

Sheridan seemed nervous… almost afraid.

"Sorry to bother you at this time, Captain," he said, "I've just read Garibaldi's report, and… I think we should talk. Privately. And I _mean_ privately."

Janeway nodded in understanding. After Garibaldi and Ayala's discovery, Sheridan couldn't know if there were any safe places on Babylon 5. Aside from _Voyager_, that is.

"Let's meet here, then," she suggested. "When could you come over?"

"Whenever you want me to," Sheridan tried to hide his desperate eagerness, but he didn't quite manage. "Ivanova has pretty much everything under control here,"

Janeway thought about it for a moment.

"What about half an hour?" she then asked. "I need to take a quick look at the reports and put someone in charge of the bridge, but after that…"

"Half an hour is good," Sheridan said. "Can you arrange for Commander Chakotay and Mr. Ayala to be present as well? And we could use Lyta's insight, in case she feels up to it."

"I'll check that with Mr. Tuvok," Janeway promised. "The others will be there in any case… though with that many people we might need the conference room. I'll arrange everything. Janeway out."

She broke the connection. Then she ordered a coffee from the replicator – she needed to be awake – called Chakotay and Ayala and contacted Tuvok to see how Lyta was doing.

"Ms Alexander is out of imminent danger," Tuvok informed her; as she suspected, the Vulcan had not left sickbay all night. "The enhancements in her system have apparently increased her healing ability by at least 42.6 per cent. The Doctor predicts a complete recovery in approximately 4.17 days."

"Is she well enough to attend a meeting I'm going to have with Captain Sheridan in twenty minutes?" Janeway asked.

"I do believe so," the Vulcan replied. "I shall escort her to the conference room personally."

"Very well," Janeway stood and rubbed her stiff, aching neck. "I'll see you there, in twenty minutes, then." She stepped out of her ready room, onto the bridge. "Lieutenant Paris, you have the bridge, until further notice. I'll be in Conference Room 1, if needed."

Tom Paris, who had been working something on his own console, got to his feet, walked to the command chair and made himself comfortable with a leisurely "Yes, Ma'am!" Janeway shot him a mildly irritated look but tolerated the out-of-the-regulations addressing.

* * *

**_Down Below, one of the Star Riders' hideouts_**

In Down Below, in a section mostly populated by Minbari, Alyt Neroon sat awake in his temporary room, preparing himself for the big confrontation that would end the thousand-year-old peace on Minbar. _Well, the thousand cycles old peace_, he corrected himself with a grim smile. In Earth standard years it had been even longer.

And it will end today. By his own hand.

Neroon didn't want Valen's Peace to come to an end, but he had no choice. It hadn't been the Warrior Caste that broke that peace in the first place. It had been Delenn and her Religious allies who had unleashed the Holy War against Earth – and it had been them, too, who had decided to capitulate, at the verge of ultimate victory, after the Warrior Caste had fought and bled, the _Dark Star_ had been lost and Neroon's beloved sister, the mother of Rastenn, had been killed.

_They_ had started the enmity between the two Castes. Neroon only intended to finish it.

He was not sure what to think about Valen, now that he knew that Valen had actually been Sinclair. Yes, the Warrior Caste had learned about the events concerning Babylon 4. Regardless of what Delenn might have thought, there still were loyal souls, even among the crew of the _White Star_ and among the workers of the Religious Caste shipyards, who felt their duty to keep the Warrior Caste informed.

Besides, Neroon had been Grey, even if only for a short time. He had been Satai, one of the Nine.

So yes, he knew that Valen and Sinclair were basically the same person. What's more, he also knew from Satai Khadiri, who had been a member of the Grey Council during the Earth-Minbari war, how they had discovered Sinclair's true identity. Khadiri was the older sister of his mother, after all. So he could not deny the fact in itself.

But that did not mean, in his opinion, that Minbari souls would truly be reborn in the worthless bodies of human vermin. Valen had been the exception, not the rule – a chosen tool in desperate times, and there were no others like him. Even so, Neroon had had a hard time to accept him for what – or _who_ – he was. It seemed just too blasphemous.

Contrary to common belief, Neroon had not always intended to become a warrior. Just like his mentor and role model, Branmer, he had once felt the religious calling of his heart and even started his studies in the Temple. But his mind proved too independent, his nature too rebellious to accept all the rules and teachings and rituals of the Religious Caste, without asking questions or second-guessing all those so-called truths he had been expected to believe just because he had been told so.

Thus he left the Temple and followed the traditional path of his family and became a warrior – one of the best in his whole Caste. But he never ceased to believe in destiny, to wait for the appointed day on which he would be asked to do something for his people. Something nobody else could – or would – do.

He felt strongly that that day had finally arrived. He intended to prepare himself for the terrible task by fasting and meditating. Yet he also felt that he was not alone in the dark chamber.

"Who is there?" he asked in a low voice.

Nidell came forth from a shadowy corner, almost invisible in her black Warrior Caste uniform, only her face glowing softly in the pale light that illuminated the traditional triluminary shrine.

"Are you truly determined to do this, Alyt?" she asked, her dark eyes deeply worried. "Are you certain that there is no other way?"

Neroon shook his head grimly.

"There is none. You haven't been at home for a long time, young one, you cannot know of the changes. The Religious Caste chose to betray us, tog gather more and more power behind our backs, building warships… They must be stopped."

"True," Nidell nodded, "but must it be done so that you would have to sacrifice your honour in the process?"

"Some things are infinitely more important than one's personal honour," Neroon said.

"Shai Alyt Sineval and the crew of the _Trigati_ would not agree with you," Nidell replied quietly but firmly.

For a moment, Neroon set aside his mental preparations to give her a calculating look. She was young, courageous and clever, one of their best agents on Babylon 5, not to mention beautiful and honourable – a worthy follower and mirror image of her aunt, Deeron, the late First Officer of the _Trigati_… and still unbound. Perhaps when this mess with Delenn and the Religious Caste was over, the family should arrange a courtship for Rastenn. _The two would be a good match_, Neroon decided, _and this would be a good alliance for the two families._

"They might not agree with me," he replied, "but they are not here, in my place. It is I who must choose the best way to end this conflict – whatever it takes."

"I fail to understand what good could come out of an action against one's own honour," Nidell said, strong in her faith and not frightened a bit by the leader of her clan. Good. The family needed a strong and independent mate for the Heir.

Neroon allowed himself a thin, ironic smile.

"The Religious Caste has a saying, Nidell," he said and quoted: "'Understanding is not required – only obedience.'"

"By all due respect, Alyt," she replied without as much as blinking, "that is a foolish rule indeed. Small wonder that the members of the Religious Caste are so… weird."

"Does it mean that you will not obey me in case you cannot understand my orders?" Neroon inquired mildly.

"Oh, no, Alyt," she said with a grin, "I am just not willing to give up my own opinion _while_ I obey your orders."

Neroon grinned back. Talking to this spirited young warrior had made him feel better about himself and about the possible outcome of this whole day.

"Nidell," he said, "I know that you are still unbound. As clan leader, I know about these things. But are you promised to anyone?"

"No," she replied, her surprise clearly showing. "My work has not left me time to accept a courtship… or initiate one. Why do you ask?"

"You could be a great asset to our family," Neroon answered openly. "I wish to arrange a courtship between you and Rastenn, if you are not adverse."

For a moment, Nidell couldn't answer. Matchmaking was a time-honoured tradition on Minbar, one that older relatives often executed when the young ones were too busy – or not willing – to look for a mate themselves. As the numbers of their people were dwindling, it was ultimately the duty of every Minbari to procreate… or at least try. So, Neroon's request wasn't unreasonable – just unexpected.

"I… I will have to think about this first," she finally said. She had nothing against Rastenn, personally, but taking a mate was a choice for a lifetime. One did not do it lightly.

Neroon nodded. "Of course. We have to solve the current crisis first anyway." He gave the now obviously troubled young woman a short nod. "Leave me now. I have to meditate before I make my move."

Nidell merged with the shadows noiselessly, but Neroon heard her light footsteps retreating nevertheless. He sat back down on the hard metal floor and weighed the hereditary _denn'bok_ of his family in both hands for a moment.

The time of arguments was over. Now it was time for the weapons to speak.

* * *

**_Voyager – Conference Room_**

Chakotay and Ayala were already in the conference room when Janeway returned from her short foray to the mess room – she dared to face Neelix's newest creation, after all – and shortly thereafter Tuvok, too, arrived, supporting a still deathly pale and obviously weak Lyta Alexander. Kes accompanied them, one eye on the medical tricorder all the time.

"How do you feel, Ms Alexander?" Janeway asked. The red-haired woman gave her a faint smile.

"Awful," she said, "but it beat being dead."

"I'm sorry that we had to bother you," Janeway apologized. "But whatever you happened to… well, _overheard_… might be important."

Lyta nodded carefully. "I understand. Although I'm afraid I don't have very much to say."

Sheridan arrived right on time, with Garibaldi in tow; the chief had left the organization of security for Delenn's inauguration in Zack Allen's capable hands. They had brought Marcus, too, as the one who knew the most about Minbari politics. Janeway wondered briefly about Ivanova's absence; after all, the First Officer of Babylon 5 was more than involved in the current crisis.

"She is in C&C," Sheridan explained. "That's about as safe as you can ever be on Babylon 5. Besides, she is the only one I can entrust the safety of the station in a crisis. Corwin is a good officer but much too young and inexperienced."

Janeway nodded. "I see. Now, since we are here to exchange information, I'd like a short summary of the situation. Who are these people in my brig, who are their allies in that hidden sector of Babylon 5, and why do you think that Commander Ivanova is in particular danger? In this order, if possible."

Sheridan looked at Garibaldi. "I think you have the most complete picture, Michael. Would you do the honours?"

"All right," Garibaldi began ticking off things on his fingers. "The guys in the brig are Rishi and Jack Culkin, once members of station security, who had joined Home Guard and Nightwatch, respectively. Those are Earth Gov elite organizations, the latter of which tried to take over the station a couple of weeks ago. The other guys in Grey… whatever, are their cronies, save Malcolm Biggs, who represents the Home Guard, the most xenophobic of all Pro-Earth organizations. Unfortunately, they are also the most influential ones of all similar groups, supported directly by EarthGov. I'm pretty sure that they work hand in hand with Nightwatch. Biggs used to be an old friend of Ivanova's, but Susan managed to reveal his role in a conspiracy to kill alien dignitaries, back in Commander Sinclair's times, so it's possible that he's out there to get her for that."__

"What makes me even more worried are the hints about this Stoner Mr Ayala mentioned in his report," Sheridan added grimly. "If this is the same man we had the questionable honour to meet already, that could mean big trouble."

"Lieutenant Ayala's report suggests that this man is a telepath," Tuvok said. "Is he a particularly strong one?"

Sheridan shook his head. "No. Not any longer, that is. As far as I can hope to understand these things at all, he lost his telepathic abilities due to certain experiments of the PsiCorps. However, they turned him into a very strong empath. He was capable of charm anyone in plain sight out of their minds, so that they did whatever he wanted."

"According to those Nightwatch types, the guy is used to manipulate Minbari," Ayala said. "To carefully orchestrate the increase of conflicts between the Castes. Is such a thing possible?"

All eyes turned to Marcus for an answer. The Ranger thought about it, then he shrugged.

"Given enough time, it can be done. Telepathic tinkering wouldn't work. Minbari are used to telepaths and are taught to keep up their mental shields, such as they might have, all the time – they would realize at the moment someone tried to touch heir minds. But fuelling their natural emotions would go unnoticed, I think."

"You _think_?" Sheridan frowned. Marcus shrugged again.

"I can't be sure. Minbari are very secretive, and I only know the Rangers among them closer. It might be different in the Religious Caste. I don't know what sort of special training they receive."

"Are there any methods to resist such tampering?" Sheridan asked.

"There is indeed," Tuvok answered in Marcus' steed. "For example, Cardassian soldiers start an intensive training that makes them capable to resist any telepathic intrusion at a very early age. Even a very strong telepath would find it difficult to read their minds."

Sheridan knew by now, of course, who the Cardassians were. He had read the _Voyager_ logs already. But the analogy was not helping in the current situation, and he told so. Chakotay grinned.

"But talking to Vulcans means that you learn all sorts of _fascinating_ trivia," he said with emphasis, and Janeway, Ayala and even Kes were hard put to suppress a grin. Tuvok's face remained as impassive as always, and once again, Sheridan had the feeling that he'd missed an inside joke. Perhaps one day they will tell him what it was.

"Any ideas what we could do about this Stoner?" he asked.

Janeway shook her head. "It's not our job to interfere," she said. "I'm sure Ambassador Delenn will be able to deal with the problem after her inauguration, especially since she'll have the Rangers to help her now. Ms Alexander," she added, turning to Lyta, "Is there a possibility that this Mr Stoner has been sent to Minbar by the PsiCorps itself?"

Lyta shook her had and grimaced from the pain this careless gesture caused.

"I don't… think so. Whatever… we may think about the... PsiCorps, and I am… certainly not a big… fan of them, they... at least do protect their… loyal members. I've heard…about the experiments… Stoner was… very valuable for the … Corps… a great success, and he… kept working for the… They wouldn't… risk him this way…"

She went silent, exhausted from the long speech. Garibaldi nodded.

"True. We got to feel that success first-hand, all right. Do you think Biggs and his cronies got Stoner right after we had thrown him off Babylon 5?"

"They could have just as well got him on Earth," Sheridan said thoughtfully. "They had years to find him."

"No," Lyta said. "They couldn't have… abducted him on Earth… or on Mars, where… the PsiCorps has… a strong presence. They'd have watched… Stoner like… bloodhounds."

"So the danger he represents for Minbar roots from EarthGov itself, or from the Home Guard, not from the PsiCorps," Janeway summarized. "We should definitely inform Ambassador Delenn."

Tuvok shifted in his seat. "I would like to offer another opinion, Captain Sheridan."

Sheridan looked at him a little surprised then shrugged. "Go on. I'm thankful for all help I can get."

"I see two possible solutions here," Tuvok pressed his fingertips together in the characteristic Vulcan manner of contemplation. "One would be to contact the Minbari authorities, as already suggested. Minbari do have telepaths, therefore they could find Mr Stoner and remove him from the planet."

Sheridan tried not to show his impatience. Apparently, Vulcans needed almost as much time as Minbari to finally get to the point. "And the other possibility?"

"You could contact the PsiCorps," Tuvok raised a hand to stop the understandable protest from the side of the Babylon 5 crew. "Consider this, Captain: they want Mr Stoner back. Thy have the means to find him and take him home. Without diplomatic incidents, without much noise. The results would be the same, only the process faster and smoother."

"Yeah, but why should the PsiCorps believe us?" Garibaldi asked doubtfully. "And why should _we_ believe _them_, for that matter? Unless, of course, we want to make a deal with the devil again."

"Bester," Sheridan nodded. "It _could_ work. If anyone, he'd certainly go after the guy as far as the Rim, if necessary. He is very protective of his people. But how in Hell should we try to contact him: We are under quarantine, our messages are jammed."

"There are... ways," Lyta said quietly. "The blips… keep an eye on… the Corps. There is… occasional contact. It'll take time, but… I might be able to… arrange something."

"Let's give it a shot," Garibaldi suggested. "I hate Bester as much as the next guy, but the Psi Cops are damn efficient."

"All right," Sheridan sighed. "Now, what are we doing about our guerrillas in Grey Sector? It might sound paranoid, but I feel decidedly uncomfortable, knowing that they are lurking all over the station – _especially_ in Grey Sector. That place is the proverbial rat trap."

"I'm afraid we'll have to comb through Grey Sector with a fine toothed comb," Garibaldi replied with a sour face. "It'd be a hell of a job; I only hope your advanced sensors can be of some help," he looked at Tuvok, who exchanged a look with Janeway, interpreted her facial expression as defeat and nodded. "But it has to wait at least one day. Right now, we have to focus all our efforts on securing the ceremony today."

"Can you do it?" Sheridan asked worriedly. "I don't want Delenn to be harmed."

"Trust me, Captain; she won't. We know our jobs, and we know what to look out for now. There will be no chance for any Home Guard or Nightwatch assassin to get close to her."

* * *

**_Green Sector – Vir's quarters_**

For the first time since she had been re-called from Minbar, Vir was feeling carefully optimistic, almost happy. Sam Wildman had kept her word and arranged for him a visit on _Voyager_ – a completely informal one, of course, but like any good Centauri, all Vir needed was an opportunity.

He knew that his skills were rather… limited when it came to political schemings, but he could be quite persuasive when allowed to be honest. Plus, he had just recently helped some of the _Voyager_ crew in a rather unpleasant situation. He felt reasonably positive about a "chance" meeting with Captain Janeway.

But first he had to attend Ambassador Delenn's inauguration ceremony. As the former Centauri ambassador on Minbar, he had received an invitation of his own, as someone who had a deeper understanding of the importance of this event than any other Centauri, _including_ Londo. He genuine liked the Minbari way of life – at least what he had come to know as such – and his interest earned him the respect of the Minbari.

He wished he could wear the robe that he had received as a gift on Minbar, to honour Delenn that way, but he knew it would irritate Londo. And as at this time the irate ambassador was the only thing that stood between him and exile – or even execution – for helping the Narn refugees, he couldn't afford to provoke Londo. Even so, he looked forward to participate in one of the serene Minbari ceremonies again. He had grown fond of them, finding them very soothing.

He was all but finished with getting dressed and groomed for the big event, when his comm unit beeped. To his amazement, the display showed that the call was coming in through one of the secured diplomatic channels. One used by Minbari only.

That alone was unusual enough, but even greater did his amazement become when he opened the channel and Rastenn's face appeared on his viewscreen. At first sight he barely recognized the young Minbari in full Warrior Caste regalia, with all that black leather and spikes and the crest of the Star Riders upon his breast. Gone was the simple Worker Vir had known. _This_ Rastenn was elegant, arrogant, coldly handsome and most likely very dangerous.

"Greetings, Vir," he said, bowing his head, his sharpened bonecrest glittering in the artificial light of his ship. Vir gulped. He knew now what a Minbari bonecrest could be used for, if necessary. He would never look at one in the same way.

"I must keep this short," Rastenn continued, "as this call has not been authorized."

Vir nodded mutely. He didn't ask how Rastenn managed to access a diplomatic channel. If one was the nephew of Neroon, leader of the Star Riders, one had possibilities.

"I assume you have been invited to Delenn's inauguration," Rastenn said, and Vir nodded again. "I would strongly advise not to go. It could be… unsafe."

"For whom?" Vir finally found his voice.

Rastenn hesitated for a moment.

"Not everybody on Minbar does agree with Delenn being chosen as the new _Entil'zha_," he finally said, choosing his words very carefully. "It can happen that this choice… that her right to accept the responsibility will be challenged. The results could be… ugly."

Vir stared at the viewscreen in utter shock. He understood the hint at once, of course. These things happened on Centauri Prime all the time. But…

"B-But what about V-Valen's Peace?" he stuttered nervously. "W-What about M-Minbari not k-killing other Minbari?"

"Valen's Peace has lasted thousand cycles," Rastenn answered coldly, "but there are other traditions on Minbar, older and more sacred than Valen's teachings. We must not speak of them to strangers. But I do not wish you to be harmed, Vir. I owe you, and I intend to re-pay my debt. Stay away from the ceremony. It is for your own protection."

"I appreciate the sentiment," Vir said slowly, "but you see, I _have_ to go. Delenn was the one who helped me to get the post on Minbar, and I intend to honour her, no matter what. And if there is any danger, Lennier will be there to protect her – and Lennier is my friend. It's not likely that I could be of any help, but I won't let a friend face danger alone. You probably can't understand this, but…"

He trailed off, frightened by the angry glint in Rastenn's black eyes. Apparently, he had managed to insult the proud Minbari warrior, without meaning it.

"If I did not understand," Rastenn said in a tight voice, "would we be having this conversation? Fine; be a fool. I cannot leave the ship to protect you. I have done for you all that was in my power – it is up to you now."

He broke the connection abruptly. Vir sighed, pondering for a while what he should do. Should he alert Captain Sheridan? No; the Minbari would not like that. They preferred to solve their conflicts among themselves. He could, of course, call Lennier and tell him what he had heard. But that would mean to give away Rastenn, who could get into serious trouble for having contacted and warned him. Besides, Vir doubted very much that Lennier wouldn't know about the danger already. The young priest had excellent contacts in the Minbari community on Babylon 5. Even among the other Castes.

Vir shook his head in regret, tugged on his best jacket and stepped out of his quarters. He would not interfere – it was not his place to do so. The Minbari would not appreciate it, and neither would Londo. But he would honour Delenn, whatever might come, and maybe, just maybe, his presence at the ceremony would make _some_ difference. After all, Rastenn had valued him enough to risk an unauthorized call, just to warn him.

Despite all else, it made him feel unexpectedly good.

TBC


	20. Part 20

**STILL NOT IN KANSAS**

**by Soledad**

**Author's notes:** For disclaimer, rating, etc., see Part One.

Some of the dialogue, as before, is directly taken from the episode "Grey 17 Is Missing".

My muse felt industrious, it seems. Let's hope she stays that way. I expect one more chapter of this story, but, of course, we can never know.

* * *

**PART TWENTY **

**_Voyager – Tuvok's office_**

At 17:30 board time – which happened to be station time as well – Janeway, Torres, Tuvok, Neelix, Kes and several other crewmembers were ready to leave for the big even of the day. They were gathering in the corridor that led to the exit when the ship was docked or landed and waited for Chakotay to join them. Unseen by the others, Torres had the 24th century equivalent of an earpiece, hidden under her shoulder-length hair, to be able to keep contact with Kim, who was selected to keep an eye on Marcus.

The meeting with Sheridan and Garibaldi had lasted far into the afternoon. Various strategies had been discussed, duty rosters synchronized between Tuvok and Garibaldi, surveillance techniques compared – for which they had called in Seven of Nine – and finally a plan for searching he station took temporary shape. Lyta and Kes had excused themselves and returned to Sickbay after the first hour. Marcus, vaguely mentioning some urgent Ranger business, had left shortly before noon, not noticing the looks exchanged between Chakotay, Torres and Kim.

Captain Janeway had left Paris in charge, and Tom, although he hated to miss spectacular events, didn't protest this time. Being in charge meant that he could cover Harry, should something go wrong. Harry had found some creative reasons not to attend the ceremony, but finally he managed to persuade the captain that is presence on board was absolutely necessary.

Now he was sitting in Tuvok's office with Ayala, pretending to work on some glitch in the surveillance system and waiting impatiently for the rest of the command crew to leave the ship. The beginning of the ceremony was awfully close already, and he didn't want to lose Marcus from sight.

"Do we still have a lock on him?" Chakotay, in all his glory wearing the asymmetrically cut dress uniform, poked in.

Harry nodded. "We have a clear visual of all the places he goes… assumed there _are_ security cameras installed."

"Good. I wish B'Elanna could stay here to help you with any unexpected problems, but we couldn't think of any believable reason to leave her behind."

"No need to worry, Commander. Tom and I have everything under control here. And B'Elanna might be useful if it comes to a confrontation. There's nothing like an irate Klingon – all right, a _half_-Klingon – to frighten the bad guys into behaving themselves."

Chakotay shook his head tolerantly.

"Don't let her ever hear you saying _that_ if you are still fond of your lungs," he warned. "And Harry, remember: no interference until the confrontation is over. That could cause great political trouble. We must allow Marcus to do what he thinks is right."

"I know that, Commander. We won't do anything before B'Elanna gives us her okay."

"All right. And have both Transporter Room and Sickbay on alert. We might have to handle very quickly."

With that, Chakotay left, and Harry and Ayala prepared themselves for a long surveillance session.

* * *

**_Down Below_**

Following Lennier's instructions, Marcus had found the maintenance corridor in Down Below that offered the easiest access to the higher levels where the ceremony chamber had been prepared. The Ranger had been hiding in the shadows for almost two hours, hoping that Lennier's information had been right. Should Neroon choose a different path to the ceremony chamber, all would be lost.

But no. He could already hear the echoing steps of heavy boats on the metal floor. He stopped breathing, knowing how acute Minbari hearing was, and Neroon was close. Very close.

When he thought he'd suffocate in a moment, he finally saw the shadow of the warrior entering the corridor from a passage on the right. The shadow was, soon followed by Neroon himself, in full Warrior Caste regalia. He was not as huge as Marcus had expected, knowing the legends surrounding his person, but there was an aggressive and downright menacing air about him. The razor-sharp spikes of his bonecrest glittered in the dim light, and Marcus suppressed a shudder. Ranger training had taught him what an effective weapon that bone could be. But he could not avoid confrontation now. In fact, he needed to _seek_ confrontation, in order to save Delenn.

Thus he stepped out of the shadows and called after the broad back of the warrior. "So… you must be Neroon."

The swift strides came to an abrupt stop. The warrior turned around, the black eyes glittering like pieces of obsidian in his rugged face. He took in the Ranger uniform and the lithe form of the human in a single look and knew at once why the Ranger was here.

"You shouldn't get involved in things that don't concern you," he said in his deep, cold voice. "My quarrel is with Delenn."

Anger flared in Marcus at being dismissed in such a casual manner. "Then your quarrel is with me," he snarled.

Neroon shook his head in disbelief, faced by so much stubbornness. What could the scrawny human possibly hope to stop him? He'd kill the vermin and go on with his sacred duty to his people.

"Do you have any idea who I am?" he asked with something akin pity. He didn't really want to kill this child – there was no honour in that – but he would do so if the human didn't step aside.

Those large eyes in that pale face stared at him in defiant anger.

"I do," the Ranger said firmly. "But the only way you will get to her is through me. I invoke _Denn'Sha_."

That startled Neroon for a moment. Not the challenge itself, but the mere fact that the human had the cheek to challenge _him_. Few Minbari would have dared to do the same, even the best from the Warrior Caste would think twice before speak such a challenge. Even if Minbari still _did_ kill Minbari. _Denn'Sha_ had not been invoked for a thousand cycles. The human must have done extensive research in Warrior Caste traditions to know about it, in the first place.

Well, if he had a death wish, Neroon would be only happy to grant him death.

"To the death?" he repeated with a thin, ironic smile and extended his _denn'bok_. The thought to start the cleansing of his planet from the human vermin gave him strange satisfaction.

The human extended his own _denn'bok_; they touched the weapons in salute and walked the traditional circle as required, before each sinking into a fighter's crouch.

"During the war I killed fifty thousand of you," Neroon said with dark pleasure in that cold voice of his. "What's one more?"

They exchanged the first, tentative blows, just testing each other's strength. It was abundantly clear for Marcus that his only chance to stand long enough to win some time for Delenn would be in speed and agility. Every single one of Neroon's blows had an impact that literally rattled his teeth.

"Not bad...for a beginner," the Minbari said with the appreciation of a weapon master watching a promising pupil. The tone made Marcus raving mad – which was most likely Neroon's intention – but he forced himself to discipline. He could not afford being distracted. He had to make this last as long as possible.

He attacked again, trying to use his advantage against the heavier form of the Minbari. Like a sleek, lithe predator trying to bring down a much stronger bison. To his dismay, the Minbari blocked his strikes easily. The warrior might have been bigger and heavier, but he was not slow. Bugger.

"Last chance," Neroon offered, to his own surprise feeling something like a grudging respect for the foolish bravery of the human. "I was taught the pike by Durhann himself."

Marcus whirled around, dealing a blow known as Sech Durhann's special move and taught only to the best pupils of the old pike master.

"Really?" he taunted in an unexpected moment of triumph. "So was I."

Neroon blocked the blow – barely – his black eyes narrowing. He knew, of course, that Sech Durhann accepted the honour to train the Rangers in Tuzanor, but he'd never thought that the Master would lower himself to train _humans_. Durhann was the pride of the Warrior Caste, a respected, honourable and deadly warrior. How could he do such thing?

And yet the Master's influence could clearly be seen in the human's moves. This was outrageous. Neroon felt his heart grow cold with dismay and contempt.

"You are a fool," he said coldly. Yes, the Human may have been taught by Durhann, and he did have the advantage of speed and agility, but Neroon had the advantage of strength and experience. He had trained his whole life for battle. He had prepared his whole life for this crucial moment. "But if this is what you wish, then _Denn'Sha_ it will be."

He launched into attack again. He had been delayed enough, distracted from his purpose – probably this had been the human's intention all the time. Well, it did not work. This will end here – and so will Delenn's harmful influence.

* * *

**_The Ceremony Chamber_**

By this time, the audience of Delenn's inauguration ceremony had already gathered in the ceremony chamber, waiting for the big event to begin. The command crew of Babylon 5 – including Sheridan, Ivanova and Garibaldi, but, strangely enough for most, lacking Marcus – formed one group, the _Voyager_ officers another one, while the alien dignitaries, Londo and Vir among them, a third one. G'Kar was present, too, despite his status (or the lack of it), standing with station security.

Delenn stood in front of the Ranger banner with an elderly Minbari on her side: Rathenn, the one responsible for organizing the life of the Ranger trainees in Tuzanor, who acted as the ceremony master of this event. He wore the long, richly folded, light brown robe with very wide, pale purple sleeves that almost swept the floor when he lowered his arms. Currently he had folded his hands upon his breast. He was a spectacular sight to behold, Delenn looking small and fragile in comparison, yet no one could have any doubt who had the true strength, the real power here.

And yet there was a palpable tension in the air, as if people were waiting for something bad to happen. Even Sheridan, not particularly sensitive in this area, could feel it.

"Any problems?" he asked Ivanova in a low voice.

"Not that I've heard about," Ivanova replied, but she wasn't really assured herself. Unlike Sheridan, she could acutely feel that something was about to happen. Something rather unpleasant. Being a latent telepath had its disadvantages.

Sheridan gave her a suspicious look but said nothing. Instead, he looked around, feeling something – or someone – amiss. "Where is Marcus?" I thought for sure he'd be here. This is Ranger business, and he is supposed to be our resident Ranger, is he not?"

"I don't know," Ivanova shrugged; to be perfectly honest, she didn't miss the annoying Ranger a bit. "Something must have come up."

Torres had navigated herself into a position near the only entrance of the chamber. She was uncomfortably visible standing there, but it also gave her the advantage of being able to leave as soon as possible. Plus, this far from her shipmates she could communicate with Harry… if she spoke quietly enough. She caught Lennier's worried look and gave the young priest an encouraging nod. Of course, Lennier couldn't have any idea that they were monitoring Marcus, but he seemed in much need of some reassuring.

A white-clad priestess entered the ceremony chamber, carrying the neatly folded traditional vest of _Entil'zha_ on her outstretched arm. B'Elanna stepped aside a little, as she didn't want to ruin her perfect entrée; and in this very moment Harry's voice reported through her earpiece.

"B'Elanna… it has begun. And it doesn't look well for Marcus."

"Where are they?" she breathed, after the priestess got a little farther from her position.

"I'm transferring the coordinates to your tricorder," Harry replied. "How are things progressing on your end?"

Torres glanced forward. The priestess still hadn't made halfway across the chamber. "Slowly. I'm afraid we'll have to prepare ourselves for Plan B. Keep the connection. I'm on my way."

With all eyes focused on the events in the ceremony chamber, B'Elanna managed to slip out unnoticed and aimed for Down Below with grim determination. True, they weren't allowed to interfere with an internal affair of the Minbari. But this didn't mean that she could not provoke a confrontation with Neroon on her own. Klingons – even half-Klingons – were known of their foul temper.

The priestess reached the dais where Delenn was standing and laid the vest before her feet. Lennier, the only one who had noticed Torres' departure, looked around in worry. He knew something was going on, something not even he had been informed of, but he couldn't leave right now. His place was here, to protect Delenn. With his life, should Marcus fail to stop Neroon.

* * *

**_Down Below_**

In the meantime, in the dimly-lit maintenance corridor of Down Below, Marcus was fighting for his life – and losing. For a while, he managed to evade the crushing blows Neroon directed at him. He rolled and spun out of striking distance, then darted back in for strikes of his own, blocking the Minbari's pike most effectively. But he knew that, in the long run, he had no chance. Neroon would wear him off and kill him. There was only so much speed and agility could do against superior strength – and superior experience.

Nevertheless, the battle stretched on far longer than Neroon had expected, and the warrior's ire was rising slowly but steadily. He had no time to waste on this human – he had a destiny to fulfil. He added more strength to his blows and felt the Ranger tremble under the impact. He could almost hear the fragile human bones rattle. Good. The sooner he broke this annoying man, the sooner he could get to Delenn and deal with her.

He landed another brutal blow and now Marcus faltered, collapsing like a rag doll on the floor, his face smeared with blood. Neroon shook his head, and there was almost something very close to compassion in his cold, black eyes.

"What is this folly?" he shouted in exasperation. "Why this waste of resources? You are a good fighter; you have potential that should not to be spent lightly. Once _Denn'Sha_ is invoked I cannot surrender, but _you_... You are not Minbari. Step aside and I will pretend that you ran away," he added with an arrogant smile, but inwardly he almost begged this stubborn fool to listen. "Changed your mind. No one will know."

Marcus scrambled to his feet, injured and hurt but lunging into attack vehemently again, without regard of the costs.

"I am a Ranger," he yelled. "We walk in the dark places no others will enter," he tried to deal another blow at Neroon, got carried away by the trajectory and stumbled, but miraculously remained on his feet. "We stand on the bridge and no one may pass. We live for the One, we _die_ for the One!" With a desperate cry, he threw himself against the Minbari again.

* * *

**_Voyager – Tuvok's office_**

In the security office, Harry and Ayala followed the uneven fight in stunned admiration. The Maquis shook his head in sorrow.

"He is brave," he said, meaning Marcus, of course, "but he has no chance. None at all. He is too exhausted already to defend himself, and yet he tries to attack his opponent. He'll be killed. He could just as well fight a Klingon with his bare hands."

"He tries to win time for the ceremony to come to an end," Harry replied, equally worried for his new friend and wincing in sympathy every time Marcus received a vicious blow from the Minbari. "Lennier said, once it's done, it can't be undone."

"Yeah, but while doing so he will get beyond help, even if we beam the Doctor over there," Ayala said grimly. At that, Harry couldn't say anything, so they continued watching the brutal scenario through the security cameras.

Neroon blocked Marcus' blows easily now, and he started getting really mad at the human's persistence. He lashed out with deliberate cruelty, so hard that even Harry and Ayala could hear the crunch of bone.

"I've just broken two of your ribs," he told the broken and bleeding man, and smashed his _denn'bok_ down again, without mercy, even though the Ranger was in no shape to defend himself anymore. "Sorry," he said with a nasty smile. "Make that three."

"That's beyond any fair fight," Harry hissed angrily. "Where in Hell is Torres? She should go in and break the kneecaps of this guy. Or his neck, preferably."

Ayala gave him a strange look. "She can't do that, Harry. Orders, remember? Or is your Starfleet icing peeling off, now that a friend is in real trouble? We might make a Maquis out of you yet."

"Was that a compliment or an insult?" Harry asked sarcastically, not turning his eyes from the viewscreen for a moment. "I can't understand why Marcus isn't giving up. He can't do anything to delay Neroon any longer – does he have a death wish or what?"

But it seemed that the Ranger would not surrender, despite the obvious outcome of the fight. Had not even given in to unconsciousness, which would have made his end less painful. He stumbled to his feet again, but collapsed against a few shallow steps at almost the same time. The Minbari leaned over him, his _denn'bok_ raised to deal the final blow.

"Why?" Neroon demanded. "Why all of this? Pride? Duty? You've been trained well, but you must have known you couldn't win. So why do it?"

"He forgot the death wish," Ayala commented softly.

Marcus gasped for breath, staring up into Neroon's coldly furious eyes and at the bloodied end of the _denn'bok_ mere inches away from his face.

"For… her," he said, swallowing hard, his voice barely audible and full of pain. "We live for the One… We die for the One... _Isil'Zha veni_. In… Valen's name…"

Harry shut his eyes like a child, not wanting to see the final blow that would crush the skull of his newfound friend. At this moment, he cursed Starfleet's non-intervention policy. It was not right that one wasn't allowed to help a friend.

"You can look now," Ayala's voice said. Harry opened his eyes just in time to see the Minbari lower his pike with a thoughtful, almost reverent expression on his suddenly calm face. What could he have seen in that moment when his eyes and Marcus' had met? Harry could not even try to guess. But _something_ must have passed between the two of them, for Marcus was still breathing and showed no additional injury. _Thank all Delta Quadrant deities for small favours._

The Minbari turned away from his fallen opponent and stalked out of the place where they had battled, bloodied pike in hand. For a fleeting moment, the corridor was empty. Some ten seconds later, B'Elanna stormed in, rushing to Marcus' side. She pulled out her tricorder and scanned the Ranger quickly. Then she hit her comm badge.

"Harry? He's still alive, but in a very bad shape. Beam the Doctor over here."

* * *

**_The Ceremony Chamber_**

In the ceremony chamber, the inauguration rites were nearing their end. Delenn, now wearing the vest of _Entil'zha_, was offered a chalice of red wine. She lifted it with both hands, saluting to the Rangers that will be under her command once the ceremony was completed, before tasting it, as tradition demanded.

Rathenn stepped closer to her, the _Ishilz'a_, the time-honoured Ranger badge in his hands, and fastened the broche upon her vest.

"As it was done long ago, now we also name she who will lead us," he announced. "So, now among the Rangers let her be known as _Entil_…"

He trailed off, as the door swung open unexpectedly, and a hooded figure walked in, wearing the black Warrior Caste uniform. All fell silent at his appearance, staring, waiting for something horrible to happen. Neroon threw back his hood so that all could see who he was, and lifted the bloody _denn'bok_. Seeing their eyes upon it, he threw it before Delenn's feet with a snarl.

"There is now blood between us," he said in a quiet, deadly voice. "And there is blood between the Warrior Caste and the humans. I do not think they would die for me. But they would die... for _you,_" he paused, gathering his inner strength to add the allowance that cost him a considerable amount of his pride. "_Entil'zha_."

With that, he turned around and left. Lennier, worry and guilt written clearly on his face, tried to storm off after him but was stopped by Chakotay.

"Wait," the XO of _Voyager_ said. "Does this mean that the danger for the Ambassador is over?"

"Yes," Lennier answered impatiently. "Once the ceremony is completed, which it is, there is nothing Neroon – or anyone else – could do. Please, Commander, I really have to go and look after Marcus."

"No, you haven't," Chakotay, barely touching his elbow, gently navigated him out of the ceremony chamber. "It has already been taken care of. You are not the only friend Marcus has on the station."

They stepped out into the corridor and Chakotay touched his comm badge. "Chakotay to Kim. How are things going, Harry?"

"Marcus is still alive, but his condition is critical," answered the far-away voice of Harry. "We've beamed the Doctor over to treat him, but he says he can't do much on a dirty floor. We should beam Marcus to _Voyager_, Commander. I know the captain won't agree, but we can't let Marcus die."

Chakotay thought about it for a moment.

"Beam him over," he then ordered. "I'll accept the responsibility. Let the Doctor fix him, so that he'd be out of immanent danger, then relocate him as close to the MedLabs as possible. I'll alert Doctor Hobbs to expect him."

"Understood," Harry said. "B'Elanna is in Down Below with Marcus right now, so he is protected for the time being. Where will you be, Commander, in case you are needed?"

"MedLabs. You can reach me through my comm badge. Chakotay out." Chakotay broke the connection, then he turned to Lennier. "Let's go, Mr Lennier. As I know our Doctor, Marcus will be in the MedLabs in a few minutes. And you need to inform Ambassador Delenn."

* * *

**_MedLabs, twenty-eight minutes later_**

Lillian Hobbs didn't mind that he had not been able to attend the ceremony. Things had been turbulent enough recently, and she welcomed a – hopefully – quiet duty shift all by her own, save the duty nurse. Of course, on Babylon 5 one could never know.

Still, she was a little surprised to see Chakotay entering the main door that led to the MedLabs. He looked positively dashing in his dress uniform, his elegantly greying, jet-black hair coiffed back and out of his handsome face. Unfortunately, based on the expression upon said face, Lillian was sure this could not be an informal visit.

"Chakotay… is something wrong?" she asked.

Chakotay nodded. "I'm afraid so. Marcus had a rather… unpleasant encounter with a Minbari warrior. As a result, he's pretty much beaten up… couple of broken ribs… internal bleedings… cuts, bruises… that sort of thing."

Lillian sprang to her feet. "Where is he?"

"Our Doctor is fixing the most pressing problems right now," Chakotay grabbed her arm to keep her from leaving. "We'll bring him back to your care as soon as his condition is stable. We didn't want to interfere with your duties, but there was no way he could have been brought here from Down Below alive."

"That bad?" Lillian felt all blood leaving her face. True, Marcus had always been a trouble magnet, but it seemed this time he really managed to get into some very serious trouble.

"That bad," Chakotay agreed. "We'll beam him back as close to the MedLabs as possible, once he's stabilized."

"While don't you… _beam_ him right here?" Lillian asked with a frown.

"That's why," Chakotay nodded in the direction of the surveillance cameras positioned all over the examination and intensive care areas. "The captain doesn't want records about our transporter technology, and frankly, I agree with her. It could cause… unnecessary concerns by foreign governments. Besides, EarthGov doesn't need to now what we are capable of."

"But you did beam me out of my office yesterday…"

"True. But your office isn't automatically surveyed by the SecureCom system. You have deleted the record, though, haven't you?"

"Of course I have; what do you think I am, a fool?" Lillian glanced at her wrist chrono. "When can I expect the return of Marcus?"

"I'm not sure, but I think…" his comm badge beeped. He touched it. "Chakotay. Speak."

"This is the Doctor," the artificial voice answered. "The patient's condition is stable. He can be moved now. But he'll need extensive care for a few weeks."

"May I?" Lillian asked. Chakotay nodded and the doctor leaned closer to his comm badge. "Doctor, this is Lillian Hobbs. Can you send me the complete medical file about Marcus' injuries?"

"I doubt that my matrix could handle your stone age-type computer system," came the acerbic response, "but I'll ask Seven of Nine to do something. She seems to have taken a liking to your data crystals. _Voyager_ out."

Lillian raised an eyebrow. Chakotay gave her one of his sly smiles.

"You can't fire a hologram. You can't throttle one, either. Especially since he's the only doctor we have. But I have to admit, the temptation is strong sometimes."

Lillian grinned and followed him outside the MedLabs, to the coordinates that had been sent to his tricorder. Shortly thereafter Transporter Room 2 contacted Chakotay, warning him about the transport to come. Then the air shimmered briefly, and the limp body of Marcus, clad in a Starfleet-issue, blue Sickbay pyjama, appeared on the floor. He was deathly pale and badly bruised, but he seemed to sleep peacefully… well, more or less.

"A stretcher!" Lillian snapped with her fingers, angry with herself for not thinking of it earlier. "We'll need a stretcher. And another Med Tech to…"

"No, we don't," Chakotay stooped and gathered the injured Ranger in his arms. "It's easier this way. Where should I take him?"

"Follow me!" Lillian hurried forward to lead him to the intensive care area.

* * *

**_Down Below – another hideout of the Star Riders _**

"You were determined to break Valen's Peace and cast away your honour, for you felt it inevitable in order to save our people," Nidell said, confusion written clearly all over her lovely face. "Yet you did not so. Instead, you left _Denn'Sha_ unfinished, allowing your honour to be tainted as a result, just to spare that… that human's life. Why could you possibly have done that?"

"At that time, it was the only honourable thing to do," Neroon answered absently, cleaning his _denn'bok_ from the human's blood.

"Breaking one of the most ancient and sacred rituals of our Caste for a _human_ should be honourable?" the incredulity of the mere idea made Nidell's eyes widen.

Neroon set his weapon aside. Maybe if he could make _Nidell_ understand his reasons, he could understand them himself.

"Nidell," he said slowly, "at the moment when I raised my _denn'bok_ to deal him the final blow, I looked into that human's eyes. And I saw his soul as he prepared himself to die. There was no fear in him. Just courage. Devotion. Honour. And now I am confused. More confused than I have ever been in my life."

It was unheard of that the powerful leader of the Star Riders would admit any weakness. Nidell was shocked by the confession… but also intrigued.

"What confused you, Alyt?" she asked softly.

Neroon sighed, rubbing his temples.

"That human… in the moment of his imminent death, he invoked Valen's name. HE was willing to sacrifice himself, to keep Valen's Peace, which I, a Minbari, was determined to break. I don't know anymore what to think… what to believe. I will have to meditate over this."

Nidell remained silent for a while, considering the possibilities.

"Maybe if you spoke to that human, you would see more clearly," she then said.

TBC


	21. Part 21

**STILL NOT IN KANSAS**

**by Soledad**

**Author's notes:** For disclaimer, rating, etc., see Part One.

This particular story ends here. Yes, I know it's far from finished, but I don't want it to become one of those 100 chapter-monstrosities nobody really wants to read. The tale itself will be continued, though. Look out for the sequel: _Kansas 2 – The Yellow Brick Road_. Since I've had the members of the Memory Alpha group vote for a possible outcome and various plot lines, there'll be enough stuff for at least one sequel. Probably more, but I won't promise too much.

Some of the dialogue, as before, is directly taken from the episode "Grey 17 Is Missing".

* * *

**PART TWENTY-ONE**

**_Babylon 5 – MedLabs_**

Delenn and Lennier were standing in the anteroom of the Intensive Care area, watching Marcus through the glass wall. They'd given room for the two _Voyager_ crewmembers, young Harry Kim and the fierce half-Klingon woman, who insisted to visit their new friend. As Dr. Hobbs had only allowed a limited number of visitors, the two Minbari felt they owed it to them. After all, if not for their stubborn friendship, Marcus would never have found in time. And without the holographic Doctor of _Voyager_, the Ranger wouldn't have a chance, even if he had been found in time.

Now Marcus was back from _Voyager_, in MedLab again, unconscious, IV-tubes attached to his arms. Dr. Hobbs had diagnosed three broken ribs, extensive bruising, a crushed liver, internal bleeding and several other injuries, each one of them severe enough to kill him. But, as Mr. Garibaldi had put it, Marcus was too stubborn to die. The Holodoctor had succeeded in stopping the internal bleedings and had operated on him – with the assistance of Dr. Hobbs – but as much as he'd have liked to use on the Ranger the very advanced bone-knitting device, he didn't dare to do so. Marcus' strength was strained to the limit of his endurance; his body didn't have the reserves the bone-knitter usually needed to work. So the Ranger had to allow his ribs to mend on their own – at least for the time being.

Delenn felt incredibly guilty. Not only because of what had happened in DownBelow between Marcus and Neroon. She also reproached herself for not having realised how overworked and malnourished Marcus had become. As humans said, the Ranger had been running on pure adrenaline for quite some time… and nobody noticed.

Of course, Marcus had always been good at hiding. Sech Turval had been worried about the young human's motivation to join the Rangers from the beginning, suspecting that Marcus might have been a death wish, based on what humans called "survivor's guilt syndrome". But he was so able and successful in everything he did, that the others responsible for the Anla'shok chose to ignore Sech Turval's warnings.

And now this…

"This should never have been allowed to happen," Delenn said reproachfully; she was well aware of the fact that Lennier _must_ have had some part in the recent events. Marcus was resourceful, but there were some things he simply could not have learned without Lennier's help. Warrior Caste databases were only accessible when one knew where to look. "Not for my sake."

Lennier, however, didn't look particularly guilty. In fact, he looked like someone who was very certain that he had done the right thing.

"If not for your sake, who else's?" he asked mildly.

Delenn glared at him, hesitating between anger and disbelief. "He could have been _killed_!"

Lennier sighed. He hated to bring this to her attention, but someone _had_ to. These were the times he almost hated his job.

"Delenn," he began, choosing his words very carefully, "all we know is that we _will_ die. It is only a matter of how, when, and whether or not it is with honour. Marcus did what any of us would have done."

"I do not want anybody to get hurt in my defence," Delenn said, almost tonelessly. Too many had been hurt because of her choices already, humans and Minbari alike. Unfortunately, she couldn't speak to Lennier about this. About the nights spent awake, haunted by the memory of exploding ships, dying people, screams and blood and despair. All because in a single, unguarded moment she had given in to her grief and vengeful wrath.

Lennier sighed again, not knowing about all this, but dedicated to put her mind at ease.

"Respectfully, Delenn, I think this is the one thing about your position that you don't yet understand. You cherish life. Life is your goal. But for the greater part to live, some must die. We'll be harmed in its defence – and yours. There's no other way. Now, the doctors say that Marcus will recover, and that is what matters."

Their conversation was interrupted by Harry and B'Elanna leaving the IC area. They both seemed worried. Delenn looked at their face, then back at Lennier again.

"Will he recover? Are you certain about that?"

"The Doc says, yes, as long as we don't let _that_ one anywhere near him," replied Harry.

Delenn turned and saw Neroon entering the MedLabs with long, purposeful strides.

"Have you come to finish what you started?" she asked accusingly.

Neroon gave her a cold gaze. "If I had wished him dead, he would be dead."

"Then why did you stop short?" B'Elanna asked, clearly not believing him.

"That is between the two of us," Neroon replied, recognizing her as the alien female whose fighting skills Rastenn had praised in such high tones. He could see that she was a fierce one. He liked what he saw a lot. She could have been a female Minbari warrior, had she been born on the right planet. "I would speak to him alone. One warrior to another. Then I will go."

"He will not hear you," the young human male with that open face and gold uniform said. Neroon still didn't know who he was. But if this human had close contacts with the Anla'shok, he was probably worth watching.

"Then I will speak briefly," the warrior said with a thin, ironic smile.

"The hell you will!" B'Elanna hissed in rage. "You really think I'd allow you anywhere near him?"

"You really think you can hinder me?" Neroon replied, pleased by the challenge.

B'Elanna gave him a narrow look. "Don't overestimate yourself, Minbari. You have no idea what I'm capable of… with the right motivation."

"I'd love to test your abilities… under the right circumstances," Neroon said, unperturbed. "But right now, I need to speak to the Anla'shok; and as I've broken tradition to let him live, I have every right to do so. You can accompany me if you wish."

"You bet I will," B'Elanna growled, marching after him back to the IC area. Dr. Hobbs came running from her office, startled, but B'Elanna gave her a soothing wave. "Don't worry, Doc. If he tries anything, I'll tear his head off."

Neroon stopped at the bed of the Anla'shok and looked down at his own handiwork. He felt regret – not for having beaten up the human so badly it would have been enough for several deaths. That was not his fault. It was the human who had challenged him to the death. But he felt regret for having acted in rage, with deliberate cruelty. _That_ had not been honourable.

"_Denn'Sha_, you said," he murmured thoughtfully. "To the death. And death there was. The death was mine. To see a Human invoke the name of Valen, to be willing to die for one of my kind, when I was intent on killing one of my own. The rightness of my cause disappeared. Strange, that a Human in his last moments should be more of a Minbari than I. Perhaps it is true, what Delenn said. That we are not of the same blood, but we are of the same heart."

He waited for an answer, but there came none. None, that is, but the alien woman's muttered comment about something being so 'very Klingon' and about him being a little slow to understand things. He didn't care. It was the Anla'shok he wanted to make understand his motivations, but the human seemed still unresponsive. Neroon turned to leave. There was nothing more to say.

"Next time..." The rough, weak voice stopped him mid-stride. "The next time..." the human was struggling to speak. Neroon leaned closer. "You want a revelation..." the Anla'shok went on. "Could you possibly find a way... that isn't quite so... uncomfortable?"

Neroon and B'Elanna stared at each other in utter disbelief. Then as one, they burst into laughter, causing the two Minbari in the anteroom startle and Dr. Hobbs comes running from her office again.

* * *

**_Green Sector – Vir's quarters_**

**_Three hours later_**

Vir was quite devastated about the recent events. He was glad, of course, that Delenn had _not_ been assassinated, after all, but his beliefs in Minbari integrity had been shaken badly. That a Minbari would even consider killing another Minbari was a terrible disappointment for him. Up to now, he had thought that of all people the Minbari would be the ones whose honourable acts one could count most. Obviously, even Minbari had very different interpretations about honour.

His comm unit beeped again, and – to his surprise – the computer announced a call from Rastenn again. This time, however, through an open channel.

"Greetings, Vir," the young warrior bowed his head respectfully. "Am I interrupting anything of importance?"

"You mean aside from my laments about Minbari not being any better than other people?" Vir riposted snidely.

"I regret that we have caused you such disappointment," Rastenn said in a strange tone that made Vir unable to decide whether or not he was speaking seriously. Nevertheless, I hoped that we could continue our… conversations in the near future. I have realised that I learned a lot through our… acquaintance, and I would prefer to learn more."

"That would be a little complicated, would it not?" Vir said. "What, with you returning to your warship and all."

"I will not remain aboard the _Ingata_," Rastenn revealed. "Alyt Neroon wants me to stay on Babylon 5 for a while."

"Why? To spy on us some more?" Vir felt positively hostile. After all, Rastenn _had_ lied to him… well, if not exactly lied, he had not been completely honest, either.

To his surprise, the Minbari grinned. "That, too. But mostly, to learn about these humans who have come with the strange starship. It is a legitimate demand of our Caste, after all. But I also have to start my courtship, while I am here… in case the one chosen for me would prove to be the right match."

"You are getting married?" Vir asked, in his surprise forgetting that he was actually angry with Rastenn. "That's quite… sudden, isn't it? Or have you known about it?"

"No, it has occurred unexpectedly," Rastenn shrugged. "Besides, it is only courtship, right now. It can take a long time with Minbari, as you know. And if we decide we are not good for each other after all, we can still decide against completing the bond."

Vir knew about the millennia-old Minbari tradition of matchmaking, of course. He also knew how different it was from the similar Centauri custom. Minbari, at least, did have a say concerning their own marriage. Centaur, as his own fate proved quite painfully, did not.

"Is he here, on the station?" he asked, his curiosity overcoming all other possible feelings.

Rastenn nodded. "I will introduce you to her, if you want," he offered.

The offer left Vir rather flabbergasted. Minbari being the most private beings of the known universe (save the Vorlons, of course, but they were different in everything), this was more than unexpected. It seemed that Rastenn had been honest with wanting to keep their… friendship in tact, after all.

"I… I'm honoured, of course," he replied, trying very hard not to stutter, and failing, as always.

Rastenn grinned again.

"I'll move to the station tomorrow," he said. "I'll contact you after I got settled."

* * *

**_Voyager – Captain's Ready Room _**

Aboard _Voyager_, Captain Janeway was sitting, once again, with Chakotay and Tuvok, having tea. Well, the two men were having tea. She was having coffee, of course.

"This is it, then?" she asked quietly, clearly disliking the whole idea. "We'll just discard the Prime Directive and get involved in the affairs of this universe, changing their history at will. Is this what you want?"

"We certainly don't _want_ it, Captain," Chakotay answered calmly, "but I don't see any other way. Our presence has already changed the history of this universe beyond repair. We can't just lean back and keep out of the events. Sooner or later, we'll have to choose sides anyway; right now, we still have the luxury of making that choice of our own free will. Soon, we might not have it anymore."

"Besides, these humans have asked for our help," Tuvok pointed out. "In a purely technical manner, we would not violate the Prime Directive by assisting them. They have not yet formally turned against their own government. All they have done was defending themselves."

"And what if they do?" Janeway asked. "What if this escalates into an all-out civil war? Tuvok, I'm sure you see it as clearly as I do that they won't have any other option."

"Probably not," Tuvok agreed. "But if we tried to make contact with EarthGov, that would no doubt lead to the result of _Voyager_ being confiscated for research, our technology getting into the wrong hands, the non-human crewmembers being quarantined and the human ones being taken into custody."

"Aren't you a little paranoid?" Janeway asked doubtfully. Tuvok shook his head.

"No, Captain. I have done extensive studies on EarthGov's official announcements in the recent days. I have compared these announcements to the actual actions of the Earth government, as documented by Interstellar News and the information given to us by Captain Sheridan. The scenario I have just offered you is a result of logical deduction, nothing more."

"Perhaps," Janeway said. "But siding with Babylon 5 and their allies would also mean our technology getting into hands there do not belong."

"Not necessarily," Chakotay intervened. "Look at it this way, Captain: While helping these people against the Shadows, whatever those might be, it would be _us_ to handle our own technology. We won't let anyone else touch our ship. Or our weapons."

"And what if we needed to help them against their own government?" Janeway argued. "Just like we had to do when you went to find Lieutenant Ayala? Surely you can see that _that_ is quite a different thing."

"Of course I see that," Chakotay nodded. "And I actually agree with you in that matter, Captain. I think when it comes to a confrontation with EarthGov, we'll have to decide in every single case what to do. We can't make a general rule to that in advance."

Janeway shot Tuvok a questioning look. The Vulcan nodded slowly, thoughtfully.

"I agree with Commander Chakotay," he said. "This is a unique situation no Starfleet ship has ever faced… aside from Captain Kirk's _Enterprise_, that is. But even the mirror universe they have visited was quite… different from this one. The front lines there were much more clear."

"Indeed," Janeway sighed in defeat. "Very well, gentlemen. We're in… for the time being. As for the rest… we'll see."

* * *

Here ends "Still Not in Kansas".

The story will be continued in "Kansas 2 – The Yellow Brick Road".

Copyright: Soledad Cartwright 2004-11-07.


End file.
